by Philip Bond
“I’m sure you’ll love it. It’s just the thing to get your mind off that story. You’ll see there’s a whole new world just waiting for you.”
Growing tired of the discussion and needing rest… “You collect it and pick me up.”
“Thanks, gorgeous. It’ll be great, we’ll leave at six.”
“Okay, Gary, I won’t keep you from the network any longer. See you at six.”
“Harry, snookums,” it’s his primary agenda, telling workmates he’ll not be back today… “I thought we might revisit old times. You know you’re still important to me.”
“See you at six, Gary.” He still doesn’t understand use-by dates.
*
Even the embassy gatehouse is traditional American, styled in red brick, white mortar, as too the main building. The garden’s awash in colour accentuating the building, surrounding like a moat, the lush green lawn, continually scanned by motion sensors.
Daylight yields to the dark of night, the gardens and grounds surrounding the embassy start to show the subdued lights designed to highlight the floral features.
As the visitors enter the gatehouse, two United States Marines stand before them… “Evening folks, can I help you?” Resplendent in Blue Dress B uniforms with midnight blue coat and red trim with standing collar and belt white web and gold waist plate, sky blue trousers white gloves and gleaming black shoes reflecting the overhead fluoro.
Gary assumes the lead… “We’re here for the reception.”
“Fine,” he’s black, a sergeant cutting an imposing figure with military medals and commendation ribbons covering the whole left side of his chest… “Can I have your invitations?” a hand outstretches.
Spying the name badge… “Sergeant Leveaux, it’s not much fun stuck out here when the party’s inside.” There’s a familiar welcoming vibration; an inner flame ignites.
“No, ma’am, I get all the fun I need.” The marine sergeant towers at 182 cm; broad shoulders balance his 110 kg frame dramatizing his physique. Clean-shaven with very short hair, he exhibits a stunning figure of a man.
The opportunity is too good to ignore… “I’m sure you do,” she flirts.
“It might not have the excitement you seem to attract, ma’am.” Returning the invitations to Gary… “Thank you, sir, welcome to the United States embassy. The attendant here’ll escort you into the reception. Please, have a nice evening.”
Thoughts flood her mind; his large rounded eyes, open wide, lighting into his very soul, eyebrows curving, accentuating and perfectly decorating these soul-windows. A nose perfectly sized, sculpted and positioned blending with lips, pursed and worthy a lingering kiss.
The chemistry isn’t lost on Gary who decides to exercise authority… “Thanks boy.” He engulfs her with an arm, walking towards the main building.
Standing erect, the marine sergeant watches them walk away. Still in earshot, and to the corporal… “Poor little fucker.”
Gary flinches.
Reaction delayed until… “That’s uncalled for Gary, that’s uncalled for!”
“Do not do that to me again, ever,” ego retaliates… “I see the way you look at him and you criticise me!”
“Grow up Gary, you don’t own me.” Time to refresh the current situation… “If you remember, we finished being an item over a year ago.”
“This way, please.” The escort isn’t interested in domestic squabbles.
Both cool, with Harry reconsidering being here.
The anteroom opens into the reception area, dominating the room is the pale blue ceiling with the white cornices and symmetrical patterns across the ceiling. Surrounding the panelled windows are dark drapes with whole room accentuated by the parquet wooden floor.
Somewhere close to two hundred people cram the room. Setting aside their differences, the couple work the room. Harry is introduced to a variety of people, including a prince from Saudi Arabia, the ambassadors for Canada, Sweden, Argentina, Malta and Israel. One of the persons in her group is from the New Zealand High Commission. Harry decides to liven up the party… “In light of the United States’ anger towards the decision to ban any ships that may be carrying nuclear weapons, how come you are here?”
Gary’s off networking.
The New Zealander is taken aback by not the question but, that it was asked… “Harry, you’re probably unaware of the do’s and don’ts at these sorts of gatherings. We do not get asked those sorts of questions but as you are new and not asking as a journalist, not all contact has been broken.”
A journalist never switches off, never stops asking questions, even rephrased to sound like an apology… “You’re right, I’m not here as a journalist. I am sorry.” And turns the apology into a question… “You just seem to be out of place, given the publicity to the New Zealand decision and the US response?”
“Harry that’s just it, don’t believe everything the media says. Reality can be quite different to the tone of the report.”
Just for fun, lobs a hand grenade… “It’s funny, us being here in this place talking like this when our hosts are probably the most interventionist nation in the world. You have the fall-out from New Zealand’s anti-nuclear policy decisions and constant stories on America influencing domestic politics in friendly countries like Italy, Germany, France and Australia.”
“Harry, one of your ex-politicians once said, ‘If you have a choice between something sinister or a stuff-up, go for the stuff-up all the time’; I would.”
The next headline looms; she bumps up the stakes… “And was it a stuff-up in Iran, Guatemala, Chile, Cuba, Nicaragua, Panama, Grenada, Vietnam, Lebanon and Indonesia?”
“I’m not familiar with the countries, Harry, therefore, not qualified to answer your question.”
Seeing an opening and just bursting for a chance to talk to the beautiful creature, the Saudi breaks in… “Tell me Harry, have you met Diane Sawyer?”
She goes quiet, totally bored.
Sensing the change, the Saudi asks… “Are you all right, you look very pale?”
“Fine thanks, I’m tired.” She begs excuse to search for something more interesting.
Despite dignitaries jostling line positions to meet and greet the journalistic celebrity, the physique of the gatehouse sergeant plus his magnetic vibration lingers. Not previously has any man made such an impact. She’s uniquely aware there’s no such thing as love at first sight but knowledgeable enough to know of instantaneous connections and why there is a difference.
There is a pressing need to explore this encounter regardless where it leads.
Still, the dignitary procession multiplies.
*
A basement room is full of electronic surveillance of the embassy building and grounds. On special occasions like tonight, video cameras and special listening devices are in place throughout the reception areas, recording. Covering one wall of the security room, a bank of television screens showing different views of the reception down stairs.
Sanders points to a screen… “Tell me about her.”
Grabbing the guest list, the duty officer studies names… “Yes, sir. Harry Reisner came with a Gary Hallen both from ahh, a television network. She’s been the centre of attention all night; we have most of her on tape. Sir!”
“I want a transcript of her conversations,” demanding while walking out the door… “on my desk first thing tomorrow.”
*
Finding Gary… “I’m bored,” she announces. “I’m out of here.”
“It’s early, we can’t go yet; this is the best.” She’s been his conversation topic all evening and Gary’s milking the notoriety… “Please Harry, snookums, stick around for a while, lots of people want to speak to you.”
He didn’t listen… “I’ll go, you stay.” These occasions are not her thing anyway… “Bye.”
In heading to the foyer… “Can I help you, ma’am?” It’s the attendant from earlier.
“Where can I call a cab? I’m leaving
.”
“Ma’am, the marines in the gatehouse are authorised to arrange transport. I’ll escort you.”
Harry hurries out into the crisp night. The moon isn’t out, but a number of low intensity lights illuminate the pathway. Insects circle each light as they walk the hundred metres down the slope toward the gatehouse. The attendant opens the door to the guardhouse… “The lady is leaving.”
As usual, she’s impatient… “Call me a cab, please?”
Detecting a change in her voice, the sergeant seizes the opportunity… “Yes ma’am, you’re a cab.” A grin breaks out across his broad handsome face.
Momentarily puzzled… “Thanks, sergeant,” she clicks… “I needed that.”
“Well, ma’am,” this is better than he’d hoped… “What’d you expect from these fun receptions?” Opportunity knocks… “What you need is better company.”
There’s something extremely inviting and sensually familiar about him.
Equal to the task… “Can you,” his name now embedded in memory… “Matt Leveaux, suggest anybody?”
“I could answer your questions, ma’am, but I’m on-duty. Only pass out that sort of information, when I’m off-duty.”
A totally welcoming vibration ripples… “Here,” offering the reward… “My cellphone number. Call me when you are. I’m here for a few days.”
The biggest broadest grin if possible, grows… “Sounds okay by me, ma’am.”
Establishing equals… “The name’s Harry, sergeant.”
A cab drives into the vehicle drop-off bay; she exits.
Safely inside, the cab moves off. She takes a quick glance back at the gatehouse.
It’s time for a good night’s rest, hopefully.
Hello, I Am Harry Reisner
The dream is far too vivid; she wakes in a sweat; a shower eases most of the angst.
Whilst in Canberra, Harry plans to catch-up with the network’s political editor, a journalistic legend, Wellington Fairchild.
Busily dressing, her cellphone sings attention… “Harry Reisner.”
“Hi.”
Even the word ‘Hi’ betrays that unmistakable American accent; the day brightens… “Sergeant Leveaux! What a nice way to start the day.”
“I know a better way; this’ll do for now.”
The double entendre goes through to the keeper… “What can I do for you, sergeant?”
“Well, I have shore leave and thought we might get together and swap war stories over lunch?”
“Sounds good,” never ignoring opportunity when it presents… “How about midday?”
He’s ready to dance on a table… “You got it, where?”
“I’m going in to the television station, how about we meet there?”
He’s dancing… “Since we only met last night and in case you forget what I look like,” struggling to restrain enthusiasm… “I’ll make it easy for you; I’ll be the one wearing red socks.”
“You’re suggesting the television station’s full of black Americans over six feet tall?”
Now back to being cool… “Where I come from, it is.”
“I’ll look forward to it, sergeant. Have to fly, see you then.”
The day starts well. Now she’s back to take on the world but first, to business.
“Come right over now.” Wellington moderates his tone, removing exuberance.
A quick check of her watch, then… “On my way.”
*
Studying last night’s audio transcripts… “Is that it?” Sanders demands… “That’s all from last night?”
“Yes, sir!”
Another look at the transcripts… “That’ll be all,” and settles back into his chair.
Arrangements have been made, the resident lip reader will translate Harry’s lip movements from the videotape plus any others to whom she has spoken. Nothing more will happen until he has all the information and only then, he determines what is appropriate.
Sanders is happiest when things go to plan.
*
“Come in, Harrietta, good of you to drop in on us. How are you recovering?”
“Hi Wellington,” it’s been six months since they last met… “I’m just fine.”
“Sit down. Your story is a good piece of journalism with a superb editorial.”
“Thank you, Wellington,” whoa, accolades from the doyen… “Thank you for the compliment.”
A short pudgy man with close-cropped receding grey hair leaving a flimsy greying wisp pointing downwards towards his nose, each morning from 5 am, he allocates forty minutes to swimming—indoor and heated, whilst not always completing the dedication, he considers attending sufficient reward. Wearing half-moon glasses usually sitting on the end of his nose with a gold chain attached to each end of the frame occasionally, he will pull them from his face, allowing them to fall upon his chest. When interested in proceedings, he lowers his head to peer out over the glasses. The style has evolved into a signature over the years, intending to intimidate interviewees and emphasise his stature in journalistic hierarchy. Now, however, it’s no longer just for on-air appearances.
Looking over his glasses… “Think nothing of it, Harrietta, good stories do not just happen along; they must be crafted. I have been trying to tell Grant Halldin that for the last three months.”
“I heard he’d resigned, is that right?”
Resigned or fired, depends upon who tells the story… “I won’t contradict those views. Unfortunately, he is too superficial, does not put meat on the bones. You, on the other hand, package your work properly. You create the action in words as well as vision. I like that in a journalist. Remind me about your background?” As if he doesn’t know.
“Well,” maybe just the abridged version… “University, legal researcher, newspaper reporter, and then the network.”
“Alas, now they are picked for their on-camera looks with the real work completed by producers.” He peers out over his glasses… “You would do well for yourself to end this affair with Phillip Brookes. I believe the industry is not taking you seriously.”
Typically confronting of the old bugger… “What, leave the network?”
“Good lord no. Your accident and subsequent story alters public perception.” Altering his tone to conciliatory… “You know he will not let you continue with the story. He will probably try to protect you. Harrietta, here’s a thought, come and work here in Canberra, with me.” Then, as the mood alters… “Oh, do not worry. I will not try to bed you; my prostrate quells that fire.”
“I’m flattered by the offer and any other time, I’d jump at the chance,” then again?
Something unsaid… “There is a but?”
“This story has got to me. There’s more to come out.”
Youth has its advantages; however, Wellington looks Harry in the eye… “Some years back, a young reporter who, like you, covers a murder. Digging a little deeper, he finds the real story is police corruption. He is beaten up one night while following a lead and loses objectivity. He becomes involved and makes mistakes. He hit a brick wall. Undeterred, he and an associate decide to push the story along by setting up the corrupt copper. That mistake cost the associate his life. The reporter broke the story and got a Walkley for his effort. That is it, up there on the wall.”
“Wellington, it’s not the same.” The industry’s one continuous anecdote and she’s not having any of it… “I go to Newcastle for a story on retrenchments. During the course of interviews, allegations arise involving certain people and drugs. I back up an interview to put the allegation of drug pushing and that is when we are forced off the road. No, I am still objective, but there is a good story yet to be told.”
Exactly what he hoped to hear… “I agree; a brief outline, please?”
Shifting position in the chair, she pauses assembling events… “We had been going through a series of interviews with people who work at the plant. The union secretary runs a drug distribution network involving migrant worke
rs, the plant personnel managers involved and central to the thing is this immigration program.”
“Samuel Duffield is the local member,” he tosses in tuppence worth… “Also, the government’s immigration minister.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.” Secretly embarrassed by not knowing, she alouds… “I wonder if there’s a connection.”
“That is for you to establish.” His mannerisms give the impression of being in the principal office for questioning about smoking behind the toilet block at recess… “Go on.”
“You see my story go to air, Phillip gives me time off for R&R, and here I am.”
Looking at the clock, Wellington directs… “The party’s earmarked Duffield for bigger things. There is talk of him becoming the next attorney general, a lead in to the top job, prime minister.” Her facial expression displays disbelief… “I have been ready for this federal election for months, Harrietta, I am starting job interviews in a couple of days and would like you to consider applying.” Holding up a hand, denying response… “Think it over. When do you go back to work?”
“End of the week.” Tempting, it would provide the opportunity to pursue the political element to the story.
“Maybe, we can talk more tomorrow. I am meeting with the foreign minister for lunch, come join me.” The cunning old bugger knows exactly how to lay bait.
“Is that possible?” She has no firm plans… “Can I crash in on a lunch date like that?”
“I can make it happen. Besides, I know he has a thing for you.” Then with a wily smile… “It would not harm my standing with him to have you join us.”
“Of course, I will.”
“Good, we will talk more tomorrow. Now, you will have to excuse me, work calls.”
Mulling over the possibilities, she exits. The network is going through cutbacks, trimming programs and restricting expenditure. Crystal ball gazing, she’s beginning to see hazy career prospects. Maybe the time’s right to make a move. She knows CNN are hiring journalists in Europe. There’s nothing anchoring her to Australia, especially Phillip!
Making her way out, almost walking into a body in reception… “Matt? What are you doing here?”