by Fiona Quinn
“Belgium waived diplomatic immunity for the ambassador’s wife. She’s being prosecuted by South Korea. When they caught an American diplomat’s wife shoplifting at the jewelers in London last year, she didn’t face the consequences of her actions. I believe the reporter is asking about the policy differences. In Great Britain, there’s been anger and frustration about how that incident was handled. How friends treat friends…”
Blankenship looked the man in the eye. “Good question.” She gave him a nod then walked toward the plane.
With Havoc and T-Rex encasing her, Blankenship put her foot on the step. Her whole body swayed like she was drunk.
T-Rex caught her arm. “Ma’am?”
She turned to look to her right where nobody was standing. From behind, Remi watched her grin broadly. “Isn’t this a hoot and a holler?” she said to no one. Without any context, she added. “I think I need to use my Aqua Net Super Hold if we’re going to continue to have days like the ones on this trip.”
As she climbed up the stairs behind the senator, Remi tapped her video camera off.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Remi
Friday, Private jet, Beirut Bound
“Remi. Come sit next to me. I want to pick your brain.”
Remi had been looking forward to finding a more open space to sit now that half the girls were home. Maybe leg room would make her phobia a little less aggressive. But, with the senator’s invitation, Remi was glad to sit next to Blankenship.
Something extraordinary was going on, and Remi smelled a story. Blankenship’s behavior was beyond eccentric. There was something truly odd going on here. Senator Blankenship wielded an enormous amount of power, making life and death decisions in her committee meetings. If she was not of sound mind, her constituents should know.
Still, it was important that Blankenship not think of Remi in anything but professional terms. “Ma’am, I’m here as a journalist.”
“Psh. Come.” She patted the same seat where Remi had sat on their flight from Washington.
T-Rex gallantly took Remi’s packs as she pulled them off, tucking them up in the bin. Remi wasn’t sure she should let him, given that they were both on work duty now.
“You’re Lebanese, Remi?” the senator asked as Remi buckled her belt.
“My mother is Lebanese. My father was born in France, Lyon. I was born in New York.”
“And where are they now?”
“Mom lives in Paris. My father’s deceased.” Remi was uncomfortable; she didn’t want to talk about her family.
“Now, Remi, I know you need a story but, I’m more interested in you. In reporters' lives in general. I can tell you’re not the kind of person who likes to talk about themselves.”
“No, ma’am, I do not.”
“Fine then, we’ll speak more globally. In America, we’re having quite the conversation about the press. I’ve been reading up on your articles. Had to. Needed to know what battle ax you might wield against me.” She smiled to take the sting out of her remark.
“My job, ma’am, is to find the facts, not to wield axes.”
“Yes, I see that in your reporting. Tell me the state of your people.”
“By people, you mean?” Remi pulled her safety belt in place and tugged it tight across her hips.
“War reports… Foreign correspondence.” Blankenship barreled forward with her conversation despite the flight assistant standing at the front of the plane, playing a voice recording of the safety instructions in Kurdish. At the same time, she demonstrated how to access oxygen.
“We give so much praise to the bravery of our soldiers.” Blankenship looked past Remi to T-Rex. “Deserved. But others are doing their jobs in harm’s way. For example, my committee has taken up the issue of interpreters and others who risked their lives and continue to risk their lives in the Middle East, working for the United States. As things draw down, I think we owe them what they were promised, a safe harbor in America. They’ve earned it. That aside, it’s another job that puts the worker in harm’s way every time they go out.”
“For interpreters,” Remi added, “it’s not just when they go out. It’s when they go home. It’s their wives and children. Their families. It’s dangerous for all of them. Extremely dangerous.”
“And for you.”
“I have no children. No one to torture to get to me.”
“No husband? Sorry. I should be more careful. You may well like women. Wife? No wife?”
Remi could feel T-Rex’s attention brighten. Crap, now he thinks I might prefer women. She forced herself not to turn toward him and say, “Nope, I like sex with men, and I’m really hoping you’ll bed me before this trip is over.” Instead, Remi kept her focus on the senator and said softly, “I… Please don’t make this personal for me. I’m here as a reporter.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about something that’s been on my mind of late. Ethics.”
“May I record?” Remi asked.
“Fine.” Blankenship petted a hand over her head. Whenever the senator removed her hat, it always left the top of her wiry hair crushed, and the sides were wild. It gave her a mad scientist vibe.
As Remi reached under her tunic for her recorder, Blankenship said, “Ethics certainly are changing. Technology makes us have to rock back on our heels and think a spell. Have you ever heard of the Great Law of the Iroquois?” Without waiting for Remi to reply, Blankenship pressed on. "They say that the decision-makers, like me, should think about how our policies will affect our people seven generations ahead. I counted that out. That’s a hundred and forty years. Long way. That might have been possible at one point in time. I’m not sure how we can make that stick nowadays. The computing and the Internet. Trolls and bots. Saboteurs, spies. The earth’s climate is a changing just as fast as fast can be. We have no idea what next year will look like, let alone a hundred and forty years from now.”
Remi held the recorder in her hand and just let the senator ramble.
“When I started in public life, that’s what I vowed to do, follow the Iroquois. But the technology swings too fast. I swear I feel like I get my aerobics in just chasing after the bad effects that technology has on the world. I have no idea how to rein it in. Granted, technology is doing a lot of good, too. It’s like any relationship. You have to balance the good with the bad. Try to improve. But. But… Huh, lost that thread of thought.” Senator Blankenship looked around, disoriented.
“Yes, ma’am.” Remi knew the senator wasn’t feeling well and had little sleep. Time zone changes, jet lag. She was in her late sixties, and things had been going haywire their whole trip. Maybe all that was adding up for Blankenship. Remi quietly realigned the senator with their subject. “You quoted an Iroquois proverb, and you were saying that you wanted to apply that to your government position. Technology makes it impossible to predict seven generations ahead.”
“I did? Huh…” She blinked vacantly.
Remi shot a glance toward T-Rex.
T-Rex’s face was stoic, but Remi was learning to read his eyes. He was worried.
The engine noise rose as the pilot taxied out onto the runway.
Remi tightened her belt and leaned her head back, pressing it into the headrest as she gripped the armrests and closed her eyes.
The plane had barely leveled off when Blankenship tapped Remi’s hand. “How’s our reputation?”
Remi felt a bit whiplashed by this newest non sequitur. In all the videos Remi had studied of the senator in preparation for the trip, Blankenship was cogent, knowledgeable, deft at using her words like a sword. Folksy stories and humor disarmed her opponents. This though… “I’m sorry, what are you asking me?”
“What’s our reputation amongst foreign journalists coming to the United States?” Blankenship clarified. “It’s important that they have a good experience in the U.S. We know that shades their word choices. We have a reputation to uphold worldwide.”
“Ah. Yes. That’s true. After last summer, our reputa
tion isn’t great, to be honest.”
“Last summer is a specific timeframe. Tell me more.”
“Journalism is a tight-knit group. We’re all aware of what is happening on the ground. Stats about journalists being injured circulate widely in our profession. The perception is that last summer, foreign journalists were targeted by police. Of course, the police can’t tell if they’re foreign correspondents or local.”
“When you use the term ‘targeted,’ that sounds authoritarian.”
“You asked me what the foreign press is saying. With our current laws around officer conduct and the number of gun-related deaths… Look, being a foreign correspondent in the United States is considered by my colleagues to be a risky assignment, much like I perceive my assignments to more turbulent countries.”
Blankenship scowled fiercely, swiveling in her seat. “They think of America as a war zone?”
“That’s probably pushing it too far. But, yes, my foreign colleagues consider the assignment to come here to be dangerous.”
“Well, that’s not good. I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s not true. People should report the facts unless they’re opinion pieces in the editorials. America is a peaceful country. We’re not a war zone, even if we have our kerfuffles.”
“Journalism is dangerous,” Remi countered. “In the last decade, over a thousand journalists were killed. War zones aren’t the only hazardous assignments.” Remi thought of Jules. Taking pictures at a Washington D.C. airport and now, blinded in one eye.
“In the war zone.” Blankenship stabbed her pointy red fingernail into Remi’s thigh.
“Take 2015 as an example. Over a hundred journalists were killed. Eleven in Syria. Another dozen in Iraq. All the rest were targeted with violence in what would be considered peaceful areas. The U.N. says that journalism is one of the most dangerous professions in the world. More journalists die than say, SEALs.” Remi turned to T-Rex and gave him a grimace. She turned back to Blankenship. “With social media, it’s getting worse. Harassment. Personal threats...”
“Elsewhere. Good thing that journalism is safe in the United States. Why, it’s in our Constitution. That’s how important the work is.”
Remi wrinkled her nose. “I mentioned last summer and the reputation that we developed worldwide? There was an international advocacy group that looked at a single three-day period. There were over three hundred examples of journalists in America being physically attacked in that short time frame. Britain, Germany, Australia…about fifty were arrested—”
“For breaking the law.”
“No charges. Booked. Held. Then released. No. They were simply arrested. Another fifty-ish incidents were documented where equipment was destroyed. Professional-grade equipment is not cheap. Almost two hundred journalists were assaulted, almost all of those were by police, tear-gassed, pepper-sprayed—which is no fun, let me tell you—rubber bullets. Yup, almost a hundred reporters were shot with rubber bullets. I mentioned Australia. They’re conducting an investigation over one of their news crews being attacked by police. That incident has created some major diplomatic issues.”
“They’re our allies.”
“Even if they weren’t, reporters shouldn’t be targeted. We show up to do a job. That’s to observe and share our observations. But I don’t report in America. I’m sharing the conversations I’ve had with my friends from around the world. This is about their perceptions. That’s what you were asking me.”
Blankenship cocked her head to the side. “Are you ever afraid?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Remi pressed her hands into her thighs then smoothed them to her knees. “Almost always. I’ve learned to live with that feeling.”
“But you choose to be there in the middle of the war, bombings and such.”
“That’s the difference between my fear and the fear of the people I’m reporting about. I’m there by choice and can easily leave at any point. They? They’re stuck in that situation. Petrified for themselves and their children. From the time they get up in the morning, and all through the terror-filled nights, they are just trying to survive one day to the next.” She put her hand on her heart. “I am so fortunate.”
“You’re a woman writing about places like where those girls back there making all that noise are from.” Blankenship stuck a finger over the chair to point at the robotics team that sounded like they were having a blast. “It’s not a great environment for women.”
“That’s right. And I’ve been injured out reporting. To be honest, that’s something I handle okay. I report, I retreat to a safer place, rest, and recoup. But what’s frightening are the online attacks. Threats of being killed, tortured, raped…” Remi stopped to swallow. “Misogyny seems to try to push women’s perspectives and women’s voices out of the newsroom. It’s really become quite bad.”
T-Rex turned his head. “Excuse me, Remi. About those threats. Have you received any?”
“Yes, of course. All the time.”
His scowl deepened. “All the time. Recently?”
“Today. Is that recent enough?” Remi pulled out her phone and showed him an email she’d received, taking her step by step through the man’s fantasy about her sexual enslavement. “The guy’s an idiot. I tracked him down in less than ten minutes. He’s in Oklahoma. Based on his job, family, living circumstances, he may have these thoughts, but it would be financially challenging to act on them.”
“But there are others. Have you tracked them all down and cleared them?” T-Rex handed her phone back.
“It’s like a hobby. Has to be. I watch TV at night, and instead of knitting, I search for the people making the threats.”
“How do you think your threats impact the safety of this mission?” he asked.
“Look, if you’re traveling with a known reporter, you’re traveling with a threat vector. Period.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Remi
Friday, Beirut, Lebanon
After the plane landed in Beirut to let Senator Blankenship, Remi, and Echo off, they made their way through customs. Senator Blankenship asked to be taken straight to the hotel for check-in. She was tired from traveling over the last couple of days and wanted to rest in her room.
“Diamond’s dropping the girls off,” Blankenship grumped, “and giving my speech without Remi covering it.” She caught Remi’s gaze. “Remi, I think you should have gone on with Diamond.”
“I have a personal matter to attend to this evening,” Remi said. It wasn’t like she could jump back on the plane; it was gone. Besides, Remi had a copy of the speech in her inbox. No reason for her to stand there and watch Diamond deliver it.
Remi had already written a feel-good piece about the robotics team on the plane ride into London when she’d gone back and interviewed the girls. That box checked; she also got the above-the-fold story from Oxford. As far as her duty to the paper to pay for this trip to Lebanon, Remi was covered.
“When Diamond gets in,” the senator said, “she can update me on what all went on out there on the border. Other than that, I’ll see everyone bright and early in the morning.”
Standing there, checking her Google maps app, Remi was thrilled to see that they were just a couple of blocks from the hospital. Remi could easily walk it. A little exercise would do her good. She was less thrilled to find out her room was positioned right next to the senator’s again. She hoped the walls would be thicker than those in London.
Here was an interesting detail Remi discovered that she would not share publicly. T-Rex always had the room to one side of the senator. And then, one guy stayed in the room directly above hers, and one guy was in the room directly below hers.
So it made a bit of sense to Remi why she had the room she did. She helped to create a cocoon of safety for Senator Blankenship. They’d have to get through one of the team to get to the senator in any direction.
Diamond, on the other hand, in both hotels, was on a different floor.
Remi thought that too was b
y design since Diamond probably arranged for the room assignments. If Remi was traveling with a demanding boss, she too would want at least a little separation for the times when she was off duty.
The room was lovely, Remi thought as she pulled off her packs. She walked over to the little Juliette balcony, opening the doors to the beautiful weather and salt air. She looked out to the harbor and the boats, drawing in a deep breath.
It was getting late, what with the added two-hour time change.
Remi needed to get a hustle on if she were to be able to see Jean Baptiste today.
Taking a moment to drag a comb quickly through her hair, then wash her face and hands to rid herself of travel germs, Remi tucked her key card into her utility belt and headed toward the hospital.
***
Standing in the hallway at St. George’s Hospital, Remi’s nostrils were assailed by the smell of disinfectant. The phenol smell like that of insulin. Peeking into the window of Jean Baptist’s room, where the curtain hadn’t been pulled fully closed, Remi saw her dear friend lying with his head propped up by the angle of the bed and a plethora of pillows. His hospital gown was askew.
It was a strange sensation, horror. Like a camera app that could make the background blur and pop the focus onto some small detail. Right now, Remi couldn’t drag her focus away from Jean Baptist’s arm. The splint and bandages, the IV line. It was a storyboard. The welts and bruising. She didn’t want to guess what had left marks that looked like that. But she knew from interviewing past torture victims that those were most probably electrical burns.
Her stomach sloshed.
Jean Baptiste turned his head and caught her eye. He attempted a weak smile and a come-hither curl of his finger.
Remi smiled back and lifted her hand in a wave, then turned to push through the door.
“You’re awake,” she said softly. She didn’t want to be bright. Or fake. They’d known each other too long. She also didn’t want Jean Baptiste to read disgust on her face at man’s inhumanity to man. She tried to bubble up the essence of T-Rex. Calm and steady.