“Never should have rejected that buyout, right Peter?”
His assistant didn’t take the bait, even though Ernest was sure that, deep down, Peter Weston was feeling vindicated. A few years ago, Ernest had declined an opportunity to buy the same magazine that now plagued him, despite Peter’s advice to the contrary. Ernest had rarely gone against his advice since then.
Peter smiled from the seat opposite. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say.” Ernest sighed. “It’s not every day you get subjected to a dozen-page hatchet job in the largest weekly news magazine in the United States.”
“It’s poorly researched and full of errors. It won’t do any damage.” Peter waved his hand. “There are bigger things to worry about.”
Ernest laughed. “You mean the British Parliament going for my jugular or the US Senate going for my balls?”
Peter laughed. “Quite a dilemma, I suppose.”
Ernest massaged his temples with the tips of his forefingers, trying to see off his headache. He wasn’t sure if it was caused by the sound of the aircraft engines, which droned in his ears like a fleet of mosquitoes, or the million or so conflicting ideas ricocheting around inside his head.
He sank deeper into the brown leather seats of the Gulfstream IV. He hated these trans-Atlantic flights, even if he did get to ride on a private jet. He was looking forward to getting home after a few days in London, which had cost Ernest his head of UK operations and the Telegraph.
“Want a drink?” Peter held up his hand to get the attention of the flight attendant. “I think you need one.”
Ernest looked up as the woman swayed down the aisle with a bottle of Laphroaig and a pair of glasses. She knew their poison.
“I’ll take it neat, thanks, Clara.” Peter flashed her a grin.
She nodded at him and smiled at Ernest. “One for you, Mr McDowell?”
“Not now.”
Peter laughed. “Normally you’d be all for a little recreational drinking on such a long flight.”
Ernest frowned. “Not now.”
He watched absentmindedly as Clara poured Peter’s drink. Ernest knew that he was being difficult, mad at himself because he hadn’t yet found a way to control the situation. He’d work it out eventually, but for now he was content to feel sorry for himself. Once Clara had finished, she left them.
“I want to know how I managed to build this company, see off three wives, raise a daughter, stare down takeover attempts and get us through the global economic meltdown, only to be undone by an ambitious jerk hacking the phone of a former British prime minister!”
Peter was silent for a few moments as he sipped his drink. Ernest didn’t mind. He’d learned to appreciate Peter’s careful, considered advice. “It was more than just one cowboy, Ernest. It was a systematic regime of criminal activity. We were right to shut it down, but despite that, we’ll take our hits.”
Ernest took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We already have. They want more.”
“The UK issues will dissipate. We’re through your testimony and you’ve cut away most of the cancer. The problems we have there were an appetizer.”
Peter was right. The evidence of EMCorp wrongdoing had first emerged in the UK and it was limited to the activity of one overly ambitious newspaper. It had burned hot for a few months, and led to the Parliamentary inquiry, but Ernest’s contrition and swift action had cooled things down a bit. A much larger fight was looming at home.
He closed his eyes. “The British are used to this sort of thing from Fleet Street. But trying to get the Senate and Patrick Mahoney to back off is a larger challenge.”
Peter said nothing as he took another sip of his drink and leaned back in his seat.
“I really do hate the fat bastard, Peter.”
Peter laughed. “Well, given the fat bastard chairs the Senate Judiciary Subcommittee on Privacy, Technology and the Law, which is on you like a fly on shit, he’s a problem.”
Ernest snorted. “Usually it’d be easy, but we can’t even threaten to disrupt his re-election in a few months’ time. He’s retiring.”
“Wouldn’t be easy even if he wasn’t.” Peter shrugged. “We’ve got nothing. He’s clean.”
“Hate it when that happens.”
They sat in silence for several minutes. Ernest stared into space while Peter occasionally sipped his whisky. He wondered how it had come to this, after all this time. He’d built EMCorp—the largest media company in the world—from the ground up. He’d thought it was impregnable, but now it was beset on all sides. He felt old.
Ernest’s reverie was broken by the buzz of the plane intercom. The sound pierced to the very heart of his bad mood and made him want to strangle the pilot with the phone cord. Peter placed his drink on the table and rose to answer the phone.
Peter spoke in a series of pauses. “What is it? Sandra? What’s wrong?”
Ernest’s interest was immediately piqued when his wife’s name was mentioned.
“Ohio?” Peter frowned. “Why was she there? An attack? Be sure that she is.”
Ernest’s heart pounded as Peter hung up. “What is it?”
“It’s your wife.” Peter paused. “She’s been admitted to hospital in Ohio.”
“Which one?”
“Sandra.”
Ernest glared. “Not which wife, Peter. Don’t be an idiot. Which hospital?”
“It’s in Columbus. She’s alright, but she’s had another severe panic attack. She’s insisting on seeing you.”
“We should go.” Ernest sighed. “Why the hell was she in Ohio?”
“Charity gig. We can’t for a few days, Ernest. We’re meeting Mahoney in Washington tomorrow. Once that’s done, we’ll go and see her.”
Ernest stood and his back staged a protest in the form of sharp pain. He paced as he processed this new information. He’d hated these last few weeks most of all because, just when he had things figured out, the game would change again. Sandra would have to wait.
“Doesn’t she fucking understand what we’re dealing with here? The last thing I need is her going off the deep end again.”
“The tabloids will get a hold of it and have a field day. But at the least we can keep it quiet in Ohio and give Sandra some peace.”
“Owning the only major paper there helps.” Ernest scratched his chin. “Okay, let her cool her heels. But I want to be out of Washington as soon as possible.”
“I’ll make sure we’re fueled and ready to leave Dulles tomorrow night, as soon as we’re done with the senator.”
Michelle Dominique’s guilty pleasure was the ten-minute casual snooze she took after silencing her wailing alarm clock. She liked that the simple press of a button granted time to reflect on the day ahead, safe in the cocoon of self-denial that although the day was close, it hadn’t quite arrived.
Today was different. She’d slept in and the day was well and truly here. Michelle watched the clock with one eye open, the rest of her body coiled under the covers. She dared it to grind the last painful minute to 11am, and when the alarm started she pounded the snooze button several times. Ten more minutes. On most mornings she’d wake much earlier, but she’d had a very interesting night.
She sighed as the bed’s other occupant started to stir and she felt a hardness press against her back. For him, seemingly, the ten-minute snooze was an excuse for mischief. She searched her memory for his name, but it abandoned her, probably in response to the tequila the night before. He pressed in closer.
“Good morning, gorgeous.” His hand cupped her breast, too hard. “Was hoping you wouldn’t be working today and we could get to know each other.”
She closed her eyes. This was the part Michelle hated. While she was happy to indulge in what her grandmother called the physical trappings of Satan, she hated the next morning. She just wished the split could be as free and easy as their efforts the night before. She had work to do.
“Why? I’ve got to get moving.”
His hand started moving south. “Come on, babe, there’s always time for a quickie.”
“I thought that’s what last night was supposed to be.” Her voice had all the innocence of a former St Augustine’s choir girl’s.
His hand froze and he gave little more than a grunt in response.
“You can call a cab, or there’s a bus stop out the front.”
Not wanting to entertain his advances any longer, Michelle stretched her legs out and committed the crime of rising before the second alarm. She stood and walked to the shower, earning a sigh of acceptance from the man. Yet again, she promised herself that, one day, she’d pick a man based on him being something more than an attractive Neanderthal. One day.
It was just easier this way, she’d decided long ago. Michelle Dominique. Single. Hates cats and children. Her job was demanding and she had planned a future that was more demanding still. She was in no hurry to settle down and have it all end in the horrible drudgery of suburbia.
She closed the bathroom door and untied the mess that was her post-sex hairstyle. Her reflection worried her. Too thin. She’d been working too much lately and had probably lost a bit too much weight. Her face looked hollow with stress and lack of sleep. She vowed to look after herself better.
“Just a few more months.”
She showered and completed her morning routine. Once out of the bathroom, she was pleased to discover that her companion had gracefully exited. Careful not to dislodge the towel holding her wet hair in place, she dressed in a black dress and blood-red pumps, then looked in the mirror again and nodded. Good enough.
Michelle walked to the kitchen and opened her fridge. Though she had a nice enough apartment, the food situation was bleak. Some beer, a bottle of milk and a jar of pickles. She was just not home enough to make stocking it worthwhile. She sighed, grabbed the milk and some muesli from the pantry and combined them to make a dismal breakfast.
As she ate, she checked the news on her iPad. It was the usual leftist rubbish and propaganda, though the stories from the right of politics depressed her as well. She flicked through it all very quickly, getting across the major items. She was about to close the browser window when a small item caught her attention.
“Oh Ernest, Ernest, Ernest.” A small dribble of milk escaped her mouth and ran down her chin. She swiped at it. “You’re in a bad spot.”
She knew that Ernest McDowell was in trouble in the UK, but the scandals engulfing him at home in the United States were about to get much worse. She closed the browser and opened up Skype. She dialed the first name in the contact list: Anton. It took a while to connect, and she smiled at the thought she might have woken him.
Her smile grew when he answered the call wearing nothing but a towel. “Hello, Anton, sorry to disturb you.”
He frowned, and the light above him reflected off his shaved head. “An email wouldn’t have sufficed? And wipe that smile, or I’m going to think you planned this.”
“Seen the news?” She lifted another spoonful of muesli into her mouth.
He raised an eyebrow. “What in particular?”
She swallowed and gave a wide smile. “McDowell will be fronting the US Senate next month. Told you so. Democrats want a piece. Republicans aren’t any better, either.”
He seemed to consider the news for a second or two. While they were in broad agreement about most things to do with the Foundation for a New America, the topic of Ernest McDowell had divided them in recent months. She wanted him on the hook, Anton didn’t see the point. Maybe this would convince him.
“So?” Anton was clearly unimpressed. “He’ll just take his lumps.”
“He could be an asset if we handle him correctly.”
“I remember the last time you said that. Cost us four lives.” He shook his head. “No. You need to focus on China and your Congressional campaign.”
Michelle grimaced internally, but did her best to keep the expression on her face even. He was right to point out that she’d compromised an entire cell in Houston on what, in hindsight, had been a hunch. But that was the risk in the high-stakes game they played. The fallout had been contained and the organization had moved on. But she conceded the point—for now.
“China is under control. My flight is booked and the assets are in place. Don’t worry about that. My Congressional campaign is going fine, as well.”
Anton smiled. “Now you’re talking. Relax, though, while your campaign is on track, we need to think about the others who are running. McDowell is a distraction.”
She wasn’t going to win this, but tried one more time. “He’d make it easier. Having the influence of his company under our belt would all but ensure success. Every candidate we put up would stroll across the line.”
He started to say something, but seemed to reconsider. He frowned, and enough lines formed on his forehead to tell her she’d broken through and he was considering her point. “I’m not convinced, but let’s talk about it more in Shanghai. He could be handy, but he’s also the sort who’d out us and take the flak, just for fun.”
“Okay, fair enough.” Michelle was happy enough that McDowell was back on the agenda. “I’ve got to get ready for my flight. I’ll see you in Shanghai.”
3
Celebrity Weekly can report exclusively that Sandra Cheng, socialite wife of Ernest McDowell, has been admitted to hospital in Ohio after a breakdown at a charity function. The latest admission is her third in as many months. A source close to the McDowell family has expressed doubts about her mental health and revealed that Ms Cheng is distressed about events involving her husband’s company. Ms Cheng, a high-profile lawyer prior to her marriage, gave up her private practice upon marrying Mr McDowell. It appears that despite impressive public achievements in her own right, Ms Cheng is struggling to cope with the increased scrutiny of recent months.
Cherry Adams, Celebrity Weekly, September 1
“I can have my assistant work up the forms and courier them to your office. You’ll have them by the end of the day, and then it’s up to you to sign them.” Winston Clay raised an eyebrow. “As long as you’re sure, Jack?”
Jack wasn’t, but he nodded anyway. He’d decided at some point during the meeting that he really didn’t like Clay, who was one of the better divorce lawyers in New York. Though he needed him, he was tempted to tip over the coffee table and storm out of the room. Instead he continued to sit and listen to advice he didn’t want to hear, which also cost him a fortune.
Clay stood and extended his hand across the coffee table. Jack stayed put, sinking further into the leather armchair that probably cost more than he—a minted Pulitzer Prize winner—earned in a month. After a few seconds, Clay dropped his hand and retook his seat. Jack reached up, scratched his nose and stared out the window behind the lawyer.
Clay sighed. “If you still have doubts, Jack, there are options that fall well short of divorce. Not that I’m trying to put myself out of business, you understand, but could counseling work? Time apart?”
Jack leaned forward and took hold of the glass of scotch on the coffee table. He threw back the remains with a flick of his wrist, then put the glass back. Morning drinking was for losers, but he didn’t care much right now. He’d replayed the events of that terrible night a million times in his head, and it made less sense with each pass.
He’d thought Erin would be fast asleep by the time he got home. Instead, he’d found her upright in bed, surrounded by a hundred tissues and an empty bottle of red. Blind drunk on wine and antidepressants, she’d told him everything. How she’d slept with the neighbor, many times, but was now laden with guilt.
The next day, with sunlight flooding their room and a clearer head, she’d recanted. Jack had tried to speak to her about it, but after her denials he’d given up and left the house a shattered man. While he’d first spoken to Clay a while ago, having to stay for so long at the Wellington Hotel and losing the China gig had convinced him to proceed.
Jack shifted his gaze d
own slightly, and looked straight at Clay. “I’m sure, Winston. She slept with my neighbor, got drunk, admitted to it, got sober and then denied it all again. She hasn’t given me any reason to think there’s any hope, or that she even gives a damn.”
Clay shrugged. “Your call. I just want you to be across your range of options before you pull the trigger. You need to think about your finances, handling the fallout…”
“Give her half. I just want it over with. It’s done.” To say those words broke Jack’s heart again.”
“That’s quite unusual, Jack.” Clay’s eyes narrowed. “You need to protect your interests and—”
“I understand.” Jack sighed. “You’ve done your job, now do what I ask.”
He’d built a life with Erin. They’d pursued careers, supported each other, consoled each other and loved each other. Now he simply wanted to be done with it. With her. He wanted to retreat into a dark hole with a bottle of nice scotch, and wake up only after the decade or so it would take to stop hurting.
Clay nodded and stood for the second time, hand outstretched. “Okay, Jack.”
Jack stood and shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“And Jack, on a personal note, some advice free of charge. Clean yourself up, get a massage. You look like shit.”
Jack gave a thumbs up to Clay and walked to the door. He deliberately didn’t look around at the oak bookshelves or the six-figure artwork in the office. He’d made that mistake last time and felt enraged when the bill had come. It was all paid for by sad men and women who’d had their lives together guillotined, with Clay the executioner.
Ernest wondered how many of his tax dollars were paying for the office of Senator Patrick Mahoney, Democrat for Massachusetts. The office looked as if it had been painted by a drunk spinning around on a chair and then furnished by a child. It hurt Ernest’s sense of good taste. He and Peter sat opposite the senator, a bullfrog of a man who spilled over the sides of his chair. Between them was a hardwood desk, which had apparently belonged to a Kennedy. Or so Mahoney said.
[Jack Emery 01.0] The Foundation Page 2