Soft Targets

by Dean Ing

  "I don't expect to be chasing him early in the morning," she replied smoothly, and patted Everett's knee as he flushed the hue of berry juice. "Nothing personal, Mr. Everett—but it seemed worth clarifying."

  Everett cleared his throat, wondering how he had triggered this conversational trap. "Understood. But you can be personal enough to call me Maury. I don't know what to call a Corvette freak, but I'll think of something suitable."

  David Engels sat back, watching the au­tomobile buffs unload on each other. Everett's dislike for `big iron' was easily supported by every datum an ecologist might cite. At one point he threatened to show photographs of Mini-Coopers beating factory Corvettes at Laguna Seca. Gina claimed to be wary of any car that could be stolen by a tumble-bug. "Not that I blame the tumble-bug," she cracked; "one little ball of crap looks pretty much like another."

  Eventually, after a pizza had been delivered and demolished, Gina Vercours stretched the strong svelte legs and yawned. Everett noticed the highly developed calf muscles swelling above slender ankles, and remembered something else as she arose. "You used to have differ­ent hair, didn't you?"

  "Still do," she said, tugging at a brunette curl. "It's under here. You can pile a lot of hair under a wig." A throaty laugh: "I even have a gray one. One of my mannnny dis-guis-es," she said, without elaboration.

  Everett snorted good-naturedly. "You wouldn't fool a leg man at two hundred paces."

  It seemed that Gina had two laughs; this one was a whoop, unabashed and piercing. She promised to wear knickers with the gray wig and readied herself to leave.

  Engels strolled companionably with them toward the closet. "One thing more, Gina: what sort of martial arts training have you had?"

  She broke off a sentence to say, lightly, "Noth­ing, really, until the past few weeks. I'm going twice a week now—"

  "Horseshit. I mean before you met Wallace Conklin."

  Something came into the yellow-green eyes that did not affect the voice or smile. "I told you. Oh, I picked up a few tricks from a friend in Tempe, back in college."

  Engels was not smiling. "Horseshit," he re­peated.

  She shrugged, expressionless, and reached for her coat.

  "We've both seen videotapes of you taking that kid with the Schmeisser, Gina," Engels said to break the silence. "Those were killing techniques; black belt stuff."

  She continued with the coat, calm with her buttons and collar. She reached for her bag, then turned. Her face was still noncommittal, the voice calm and pleasant. "Wallace Conklin thinks of me as a brilliant opportunist, Mr. Commissioner David Engels. He would not like to think of me as a deadly weapon. Help me keep it that way." She came to some decision as her shoulders dropped. "All right. You won't be satisfied until I give you a motive. So.

  "When I was fourteen, I was raped. He was a friend of my father's, an old army buddy on a visit. Bob was very macho, very old-shoe. I guess he was what he was all the way through. I knew it would destroy an important friendship with my dad if I said anything. So I didn't say anything. Six months later, Bob came to visit again." The voice was edged with obsidian now. "And raped me again."

  "Oh, Christ," Everett whispered. "Hey, forget it, I understand why you'd want to gloss over it."

  "You don't understand shit," said Gina Ver­cours. "The next morning I started looking for an academy. It made me scrimp and lie about going to the library, but it was worth it. Good of Bob paid us another visit a year later."

  Engels was smiling now, expectant. "Took him fair and square?"

  "I bushwhacked the sonofabitch," she said, "after I kissed him, the first time we were alone. He could've taken me or made it a standoff, I know that now. But he had it coming. And he got it, collapsed cheekbone and all. My dad never understood how Bob could've taken such a beat­ing on a little flight of stairs."

  She reached for the outer door, opened it, still speaking to Engels. "To my knowledge, Bob never came around again. But you can't appreciate—and I didn't want to tell you—how much I enjoyed going through it in my mind twice a week at the academy for the next two years. I still enjoy it. I don't like you very much, you know. I mean you, collectively. Actually you two are okay, and that has affected my judgment. I'm still willing to be your escort if you ever need it, Maury."

  "You mustn't ever lie to me again," Engels said, making it avuncular.

  "And if I ever do, you mustn't pick me up on it because it'll be something I figure is none of your Goddamned business. I've done research on you, too. Sorry for the outburst," she said, raised her free hand in a wave, then pulled the door shut behind her.

  For perhaps twenty seconds the two men stood motionless, listening to the long stride as it faded. Then an exchange of sheepish grins. "So much for the ineffable power of our federal gov­ernment," Engels grumbled, and swigged his toddy.

  "She's her own man, by God," Everett said. He nodded absently as if testing his phrase and find­ing it apt. They shuffled back to the conversation pit to be near the fire, Engels beginning to chuckle, Everett taking it up. When they had finished, the Engels rasp and the Everett boom still hanging in the air, they made fresh drinks.

  "I don't know why that was so funny," Everett admitted. "Charlie George's friend Althouse could probably tell me, the little fart is as sharp as a broken bottle."

  Engels gestured toward the blank TV set in one corner. "All this stuff I'm seeing on terrorists and charlies is his idea, you said?"

  A nod. "But will it have any effect?"

  "Oh, it'll have one. Dear God only knows what it'll be in the end, Maury. And old Lasswell might have a guess. What'd he call it when you get some media effect you didn't expect?"

  "Latent function," Everett grunted. "And when your media brainstorm turns around and chews your ass off, that's dysfunction." He leaned back on his couch, rubbing his temples. "Lord, don't I know it! Dave, you think I should get a permit for a gun?"

  Shrugging: "Depends on how much time you'd put in with it. You can't walk around casually holding a blunderbuss; might cause talk. And if you're not reasonably good with it, a concealed piece is murder. Yours. You take Gina Vercours, now—"

  "A perfectly appalling idea," Everett staged a shudder.

  "But she goes heeled with Conklin, according to my source. A Beretta in a videotape cassette, which she uses once a week. Like I said: she takes it seriously."

  Everett whistled. "That lady has more balls than a bowling alley," he rumbled. "I like her."

  "That could be a problem."

  "No, I mean I like the idea, because I don't like her. Wait, I'll get it right in a minute. Yeah, Dave, sure I like her, butch or no butch. But better still, I like knowing there's no chance of a personal attachment. Like parts in a machine: we link up, do our jobs, and disengage again. I can dig it."

  Engels studied his mug, his thoughts survey­ing engagements of another day. He had seen some unlikely relationships develop between agents working closely together under pressure. Unrelenting pressure was the lens that gathered and focused emotions to white heat. It could leave permanent scars. So could a Schmeisser. "Well, you're a big boy, Zebulon Pike," he said, and drained his mug. "Are you going to use Vercours for the NAB convention in Reno?"

  Everett yawned and banked the fire for the night, talking as he worked. "I thought about it. No, I guess not. Things haven't come to that point and I really don't think they will. You want to share a room at the Mapes or somewhere?"

  "I won't be there," Engels smiled. "I'd rather see pornography than hear you drone on about it. And speaking of pornography, how would you rate Vercours's legs on a scale of one to ten?"

  "Cut it out, Dave, I need to sleep, not sweat. But how does ten-point-five strike you?"

  "That's what I thought," Engels chuckled, walking toward the guest bedroom. He turned at the doorway. "Parts in a machine, hm? Sure, you can dig it." Then David Engels turned in. He knew Everett too well to push it.

  WEDNESDAY, 26 NOVEMBER, 1980:

  As long as the
National Association of Broadcasters wanted to hold a convention during Thanksgiving holidays, Everett admitted, it was nice that Reno was its choice. He wandered among the manufacturer's exhibits in the hotel foyer, grudgingly accepting some responsibility for the presence of so many new security devices. The Oracle Microelectronics display drew his attention briefly before he moved on. You could say what you liked about media men, their self-interest was intelligent. Cassette systems shared display space with microwave alarms. One import drew his admiration: an outgrowth of the English medical Thermovision system, it could display so small a mass of metal as coins in a pocket unless they were at body heat, no more, no less.

  A voice behind him said, "Neat. Any charlie who sneaks his forty-five past that rig will have to carry it as a suppository," and Everett wheeled to face Rhone Althouse.

  Everett's delight was real, though brief. "It's nice to see somebody I can ask questions of, instead of just answering 'em," he said.

  "I heard your speech on porn," was the reply, "and I can't believe you have any answers. Seri­ously, I did want to—well, uh, actually Charlie George, ah—oh, shit." He cocked his head to one side. "The fact is, our little Palm Springs con­spiracy has become the worst-kept secret since the Bay of Pigs. Dahl D'Este couldn't sit on such a juicy tidbit for long. To begin with, his lady-love is a gossip columnist."

  "It's a little late, but thanks for the warning. Lady? D'Este makes both scenes?"

  A one-beat pause. "Yeah, ob and epi; and thanks for the straight line. Charlie and I thought you should know that the word will be leaking. It should have a positive effect in the Industry," Althouse added quickly. It had the sound of an excuse.

  Everett nodded, hands thrust into pockets of his stylishly discomfiting jacket. "Well, you're answering my questions before I ask. I'll have to deny my part in it for the record; but just between us, Rhone, I'm willing to let it live as a rumor. The Commission is interested in this ethical epidemic, naturally. I've been asked how long you can keep it up." Raised eyebrows invited an answer.

  "Hell, it's popular," the writer beamed. "With CBS taking it up, it's a trendy thing—oh," he said quickly. "You mean the reprisals?"

  Everett's nod was quick. "Those Fat'ah pismires cost NBN a bundle when the net refused to air that videotape Arif sent them last week."

  "Fortunes of war," Althouse grimaced. "Don't think our own Charlie isn't hurting, even if he doesn't flinch. He's got a piece of several sta­tions, and those transmission towers Fat'ah de­stroyed didn't do the dividends any good. Insur­ance tripled."

  "Arif didn't flush out any friendly envoys from the nets to pay him off, I suppose."

  Althouse squinted in the subdued light. "I think I would've heard if that were in the offing. If that's the crux of your concern—officially, I mean—I can't answer for the whole industry.

  "Maury, it's become a grass-roots movement, just as I hoped. Doesn't have a single spokesman, and that's where its strength lies. But it looks to me like a full-scale media war brewing." He hesitated, glanced around, bit his lip. For the first time, Everett saw something in the writer that was not young, something of the mature hunted animal. "We haven't forgotten those scenarios you laid on us. Do you have—no, can­cel that, I don't want to know. Do you think we should have around-the-clock protection when our names hit the newspapers?"

  "Let me put it this way: you and I both know D'Este can put us all on the list of endangered species. You think our names are due to hit the newsstands?"

  "I know they are," said Althouse, with a sickly smile that told Everett why the writer had flown to Reno: face-to-face admission that Everett could expect the worst. There could be little pleasure in a print-media hero label that doubled as death warrant.

  No point in asking how Rhone Althouse knew. His pallor said he knew. "Tell Charlie George we are about to learn what it's like to be a popular politico," Everett remarked, fashioning a cross-hair `X' with his forefingers. As an effort at levi­ty, the gesture fell sprawling. "How long before our oh-so-responsible press fingers us?"

  "Tomorrow."

  Everett drew a long breath. "Goddam the world's D'Estes, we ought to put out a contract on that guy ourselves. Well, I can't say I didn't expect this sooner or later."

  "My fault. I knew Dahl was a gamble."'

  "Uh-huh—with odds they'd be ashamed to quote in this town. I don't like the stakes, either."

  "What're you going to do?"

  "Find pressing business somewhere else. One thing I won't do is stick around in Reno. Thanks again; and luck, Rhone." Everett turned and moved off.

  Althouse stood and watched the big man, wondering if Everett would hide, wondering if he too should disappear as D'Este had already done. He took some comfort in Everett's refusal to blame him for the original idea. But the Com­missioner had known the danger, even while he lent tacit bureaucratic support. D'Este gone to ground, Everett forewarned: better than nothing, yet a poor defense against the fury of terrorism which his own scripts had turned against them all.

  An unfamiliar itch between his shoulders made Rhone Althouse aware that he was standing absolutely inert, alone and unarmed in a hotel, a perfect target. Althouse walked away quickly. He did not care who noticed that his path was a zigzag.

  THURSDAY, 4 DECEMBER, 1980:

  The news magazines spread across Hakim's bed made up in depth what they lacked in im­mediacy. The article before him was satisfyingly thorough under its head, "TV: No More Strange Bedfellows?" It began:

  For weeks, every pundit in the sprawling tele­vision medium had matched his favorite terrorism rumor against the rumors in the next studio. The scathing satire on terrorism, newly unleashed and widespread in TV, was said to originate in an oval office. Or, less likely, that it was a propaganda ploy jointly financed by Israel and England. One pollster claimed that the new scripts merely reflect what the American viewer wanted to see.

  The truth, as it filtered from CBS last week, was both likelier and stranger than whodunits. There had been no tugs at domestic political strings, and no foreign influence. But in the persons of four highly regarded media men, there was defi­nitely a plot. The top banana, to no one's great surprise, turned out to be NBN's answer to Jac­ques Tati, the protean Charlie George. Of consid­erably more interest to media analysts was the reputed anchorman, anomalous FCC sachem Maurice D. Everett (see box)... .

  "All bedfellows are strange," muttered Hakim, patting the rump of the girl who slept as he scanned the stack of clippings. He read the four-page article carefully, marking some passages with a flow pen, then concentrated on the verbal sketch of Everett:

  The Commission will not provide some trendy new definition of pornography every two years, or even every election year. True, our job is as the traffic cops of broadcasting. Well, we'd like to enter into a sort of public collusion with the National Association of Broadcasters: we won't give you speeding tickets, if you won't be too racy on public information channels. Fair enough?"

  These were the closing words last Wednesday in an NAB address by Maurice Everett, the FCC's strapping executive-turned-Commissioner. The only son of a Des Moines merchant, his mother a 1936 emigre from Haifa, the eclectic Everett brings a lively open mind and informal clarity to media problems.

  Everett, 42, has always marched to the music of a contrapuntal drum. His unpredictability was well-known as early as his undergraduate days in California Polytechnic where Everett switched majors four times while holding his position as second-string fullback. He emerged with a dou­ble major in American History and Engineering, and has not been second-string at anything since.

  The Vietnam conflict drew Everett for a tour of combat duty where the towering young lieuten­ant won a Silver Star and, not incidentally, picked up fresh ideas on electronic informa­tion-gathering systems. His subsequent marriage was brief, ending in divorce in 1964.

  Everett's career with a Colorado microelec­tronics firm seemed to orient the salty-tongued young executive toward narrow technical are
as but, in a clean break with other industrialists in 1970, he thrust his hulking shoulders in with Denver ecologists. Between frequent solo jaunts into western wild areas, Everett championed several hobby and special-interest groups in what, at first, appeared to be playboy en­thusiasm. But Everett, long regarded as one of Colorado's most eligible rebounds, rarely fol­lowed the playboy mold. He supported the Equal Rights Amendment, small sedan racing, cross-country skiing, and bicyclists in a pattern that developed squarely in opposition to the philosophy of conspicuous consumption.

  For the past two years a member of the Federal Communications Commission, Maurice Everett had seemed to be settling into a liberal position, confining his aggressiveness to the handball courts, even after a chance encounter with the Pueblo bombing that hospitalized him for a time. But late last week, acquaintance and set designer Dahl D'Este revealed an apparent about-face by Everett. Previously a staunch friend of press freedoms, the Commissioner was reportedly a key figure in the sub rosa group that planned a broad media counterattack on terrorism (see Media). Central to the group's strategy was a new treatment of the act of terrorism per se; and to some pundits this treatment was a dangerous excursion into media control. For free-swinging libertarians, the choice lies between the Scylla of manipulated media and the Charybdis of ram-pant terrorism. Whichever course the Commissioner charts, he will create new enemies. Judg­ing by his demeanor last week in Reno, Maurice Everett is losing little sleep over it.

  Hakim made special note of the Commissioner's unpredictability, his stress on physical fitness, his military background, his direct methods of dealing with the world. Hakim did not find these details pleasant; the man could be a formidable challenge. Yet the element of surprise still resided with Fat'ah. Presently Hakim riffled through other clippings, finding—as he had expected—invaluable data on his enemies. His sullen longing found focus in names which he listed in alphabetical order: Althouse, D'Este, Everett, George.