Callaway considered this, then shrugged. "Two hours? I don't know that makes much of a diff…"
"And according to Hurbuckle," Ms. Tennenbaum said, still livid, "You, Mr. President, you asked Bourque if he'd be willing to meet with you."
"What?"
"Yep. He made it sound like we were the ones asking for a handout."
"You're kidding me," Callaway said, flabbergasted. "I thought we agreed…"
"We did," Wang said. "Specifically and in detail."
"Maybe he felt he had to," Callaway said. "And it's not a bad idea."
"For him, maybe," Wang said. "For us, it's terrible. We'll have to deny it."
"No we won't," Callaway said. "We can't start off by calling Bourque a liar."
Wang thought a moment. "Yeah, you're right," he said, disappointed.
"Godddam devious son-of-a-bitch." Ms. Tennenbaum said. "If we're not careful, that man is going to strip us down to our underwear."
Chapter Seven
"The King of Talk Show TV," as one sycophantic media observer once called him, strolled through the INN’s New York newsroom, chatting up the busty, blue-eyed news girls, nodding at favored underlings, exchanging pleasantries with the rest of the flying monkeys.
This was John X. Sullivan, Jack to his friends, host of The Edge, television's most provocative, most controversial political interview and commentary show, dearly loved by half the country, roundly despised by the other, a man whose words had an impact all out of proportion to his airtime and his audience.
Sullivan didn't want to look like he was hurrying, but he had a destination in mind and he knew he'd better get there pretty soon—the men's room. He turned a corner and saw a junior video editor coming out the door. He slipped inside and found, to his relief, that he was alone. This was the third time Sullivan had visited the place in the last hour, but the first time that the stalls were empty and, more importantly, that all of the urinals were free. He finally had the room to himself.
He straddled the second urinal from the left—it always had to be the second from the left—unzipped and let loose a stream nearly powerful enough to erode the "American Darrendard" logo imbedded in the porcelain. And while he peed, he reflexively evaluated himself and thought of the women who had whispered to him that he was significantly above average, although not so big as to be alarming.
Sullivan zipped up, moved over to the sink and bent toward the mirror. He didn't feel the need to wash, but he wanted to make sure the old mug was up to snuff. He thought, with some justification, that he resembled John Wayne. He was tall, raw-boned, nicely weathered, only slightly overweight, with a manly head of shiny dark hair, grey enough at the temples to give him an air of authority. "Looking good," he told himself, in that familiar resonant voice that had made him his fortune.
He checked the solid gold Rolex on his left wrist, the watch Helmut Metzger gave him three years ago, when The Edge settled in at number one in cable ratings. Time to head upstairs for the morning meeting with the Big Man. He knew what the subject would be—the Callaway-Bourque meeting. He had no idea how Metzger would twist it—he'd given up trying to anticipate the man—but he was sure it would be surprising and effective. In the battle for America's soul, there was no more tireless or inventive a crusader than Helmut Metzger.
Only one elevator had the honor of ascending to the 43rd floor, the "eagle's aerie" whose sole occupant was the first lord of the media moguls, Helmut Metzger, the owner of multiple television channels, radio stations, newspapers and magazines that, together, informed and entertained the hoi polloi in 17 different countries. He was the German-born genius who had singlehandedly transformed journalism from dedicated reportage and an unending search for truth into a irresistible appeal to the most primitive human instincts, a juicy concoction of gossip, sex and political partisanship..
Sullivan made his way to the special elevator and pressed the single button beside it. The door slid open as though it had been waiting for him and the elevatorman/bodyguard, one of Metzger's retro whims, stood aside so that he could enter. The elevator shot up like a closed capsule in a pneumatic tube, arriving at the 43rd floor in seconds.
Sullivan emerged from the elevator smiling, striding into the Bauhaus-styled chamber, but Metzger was not looking his way. Metzger was sitting at his glass-and-stainless steel desk, and being serviced simultaneously by a scissor-wielding barber—a small, grey-haired Black man—standing behind him, and a 19-year-old manicurist, second-place finisher in the 2009 Miss Sweden contest, kneeling at his feet.
While they worked on him, Metzger gazed out of the panoramic window that encircled his penthouse office, contemplating the heavy black clouds coming toward the city out of the north. After a moment, he turned toward Sullivan. "The rain will come soon," he said, smiling, with a slight German accent.. He did not invite Sullivan to sit on one of the several black suede beanbag chairs artfully scattered around the room.
"Yes," Sullivan said, following his gaze. "Pretty big storm coming."
"I'm finished," said the manicurist, standing and displaying her figure. She put her bottles, brushes and files into her little box and closed the lid. "You'll be dry in a few minutes."
Metzger looked at his gleaming nails, pleased. "Thank you," he said. "Isaac?"
"Yes, suh, jus' one more little clip," said the barber. He made a precise snip with his gleaming scissors. "There you are, suh, looking mighty fine."
A thought slowly made its way across Metzger's face. "Isaac," he said, "now don't you be offended but I have a question."
The little Black man stepped in front of Metzger so they could see each other. "Yes, suh?" he asked, with practiced tolerance.
"Well, you being an African-American, you have that kinky Negro hair, correct?"
"Yes, suh," Isaac agreed. "No denyin’ it.”
"So how is it that you've gotten so good at barbering white men's hair?"
Isaac smiled benevolently. "Practice, suh," he said. "Practice."
Metzger nodded as though he found Isaac's answer satisfying. He examined his nails again and ran a hand over the back of his neck and smiled, apparently quite pleased with his beauty treatment. "Thank you very much Isaac—and Inga," Metzger said. "Marthe has your checks downstairs." The barber and the runner-up mumbled their thanks, entered the waiting elevator and whooshed away.
As for Jack Sullivan, he could see no improvement in the Metzger’s physiognomy. Partly as a result of Metzger's youthful days as a boxer—which he managed to mention daily—he was an irredeemably ugly man, with a lumpy face, cauliflower ears, scars around his eyes, sparse grey hair, and a nose broken so often that it rivaled Lombard Street. The overall effect was one of power—loathsome and malignant power, like the picture of Dorian Grey moldering in the attic.
"Look out there, Jack," Metzger said, pointing to the window. "It's almost on us."
Sullivan looked. The thunder clouds were rolling in and raindrops were beginning to make tracks down the windows, and everything was lit by jagged flashes of lightning . He felt like he was sitting in some gigantic heavenly control room and that the Wizard—Metzger—was about to test humanity. Again.
"Jack, the gods have been good to us," Metzger said, leaning forward.
"Yes sir," Sullivan said, wondering what Metzger was talking about.
"I knew we'd find a way to attack him. I felt sure we could take him down. But the truth is, Jack, I never thought it would come this quickly, and I never thought he'd be the one to hand me the rope to lynch him with."
Sullivan was startled. "Lynch?"
"Politically, I mean," Metzger said, grinning with malicious pleasure.
"Of course. But how are we going to do it?"
"Ask me about that tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? What's happening tomorrow?"
"I'll have the results of the polls I commissioned after the announcement. They'll tell me exactly where to hit him."
"But what do I say tonight?" Sullivan asked. "Do I lay off or
start hitting him?"
Metzger covered his mouth with his hand and his eyes wandered off, briefly. He was calculating. "Go easy on him tonight, Jack," he said at last. "Be a journalist. Report what that Jewel Rogard said in the briefing. Point out that this is an historic development and that it would be sheer folly to immediately speculate on its outcome. Be nice and reasonable."
"Just for tonight, you mean."
Metzger smiled, which was a fearsome sight. "Of course."
"We gotta get out in front of this," Marty Katz said, taking a deep draw from his cigar and exhaled. "We have to set the table before someone else does."
Wang tried to wave away the smoke, which was headed directly toward him. "Set the table?"
"It's an expression," Katz said. "It means to set the terms of the argument before your opponent can. You know, strike the first blow, seize the initiative. If we do that, the rest will follow."
Callaway nodded. " I get it, Marty. I get it. So what do we do?"
"We’re looking for the maximum impact on the most influential audience," he said. "So we put someone on Sunday Newsmakers, this Sunday if possible."
"Who?" Callaway asked.
"Veronica, I think," Wang said. "She's got the stature. And if Roger Nelson tries to push her too hard, she'll run over him like steamroller."
"That's true," Katz said, taking another puff on his cigar. "He's not going to get her to say anything she doesn't want to."
They looked toward Callaway, wondering if he agreed, waiting for a decision. For a few moments, he was his usually unreadable self. "I want you to do it, Marty," he said finally.
"Veronica would be better," Katz said.
"We both know she's something of a loose cannon," the President said. "Which is not to say I don't love her. But she doesn't know the situation as well as you do, Marty. And sometimes, her answers are, well, too substantive."
"My answers aren't substantive?"
"You're a better bullshitter," Wang explained.
The President smiled, and Katz blew a cloud of smoke in Wang's direction.
The show opened, as it had for the last eleven years, with a one-shot of the craggy but nevertheless handsome host, Roger Nelson, displaying his knowing smile, attired in a lush Paul Stuart suit and a glorious multi-colored silk tie, the combination costing as much as a cabin class transatlantic voyage on the QE II.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he intoned, "I'm Roger Nelson and this is Sunday Newsmakers. This morning, our exclusive guest is Martin Katz, President Callaway's Chief Political Advisor. Good morning, Marty."
The screen view switched to a two-shot, with Marty Katz sitting across the triangular walnut conference table from Nelson. His left side was to the camera, which was unfortunate because it made his comb-over obvious even to the unobservant. His mustache, however, was neatly clipped, and he was wearing a suit that was even better than Nelson’s.
"Good morning, Roger," he said. "Glad to be here."
Nelson offered a benign smile. Every Sunday morning, it was the same, a duel between himself and his interview subject, a duel without visible blood, but with a potentially sensational outcome. Could he push his guest hard enough to make news? Could he catch him off guard, get him to say something he hadn't intended? Making headlines, outsmarting interview guests—that's what made ratings.
Roger Nelson knew his subject was a canny old poll, and that it wouldn’t be easy to rattle him, to get him to say something he hadn't intended. His best chance was to stick to his system: Start slow, serve up softballs, get his guest to relax, toss a curve or two, and maybe a changeup, then—zing! A fastball aimed right at the head. With a little luck, Marty wouldn't see it coming. Betsy Stark hadn't seen it coming, which is how he got her to admit she'd had an affair while in office. Gov. Myers had also missed the fastball, and inadvertently revealed he was considering changing parties.
Marty Katz approached the interview from the opposite direction. His goal was to win hearts and minds, neutralize the opposition, and say nothing that would grab headlines and give aid and comfort to the enemy. But this wasn't unfamiliar territory. He'd subjected himself to hundreds of interviews like this, if not thousands, and he believed he was damn good at them. He intended to say exactly what he had in mind and not a syllable more.
"Marty," Nelson began, his tone—even his body language—conspicuously benign, "the whole country is talking about yesterday's announcement that President Callaway plans to meet with President Bourque. I’m sure you were in on the decision. Could you tell us more about it?"
Katz leaned forward and took a graceful cut at the softball. "Sure, Roger. I'd be glad to. As you know, we have always had diplomatic relations with the CSA. Well, after the election, some low-level officers on both sides happened to meet each other at a Washington restaurant and they got to talking."
"So that's when the idea was born?" Nelson asked.
"So I gather," Katz said.
Nelson pressed on. "How did the two principals hear about the idea?"
Katz relaxed a bit. This might be easier than he expected. "I don't know all the details, Roger. I got in at the end of the process."
Nelson decided to up the ante. "Speaking about process, I just have one more question about it. In his sermon in Louisiana the other day, Rev. Harlan Hurbuckle said that President Callaway came to President Bourque and asked for the meeting. Is that what happened?"
"Well, I think the Reverend is little mixed up, but it doesn't matter," Katz said, hoping that answer would satisfy Nelson. "The two Presidents obviously have a lot to talk about."
Nelson nodded, ready to move on. "What do they have to talk about, Marty?"
Katz unconsciously reached into his jacket for his cigar case, then retracted his hand, put it back on the table and laced his fingers together. "Well, we're neighbors, Roger. We have a lot to talk about. Just think of the environment, for instance. We share concerns about air and water pollution."
Nelson felt a yawn coming on, and gritted his teeth, the anchormans' most dependable way of stifling it. "But…"
"And there's water resources—we share the Mississippi, you know." Katz said, hoping to tempt Nelson into a dead end.
Nelson would not be led. "That's true," He replied, "but let's face it—the air and the water have always been there. Why meet about them now? Are there other issues?…"
Katz tried to look like he welcomed the question. "Of course there are other issues, Roger, more pressing issues. Trade, for instance. We would both benefit from reduced tariffs. They pay a tariff on our manufactured goods, as you probably know, and we do the same on their cotton, their fish and their shrimp. If we could reduce those tariffs, we could improve living standards for both countries."
No headlines in that answer, Nelson knew. He gave it another push. "So that's what this meeting is all about—pollution and tariffs? There must be more to it than that."
"There is," Katz assured him. "The meeting could lead to cultural exchanges. Maybe they could stage one of their NASCAR events up here. Or we could send them the New York Philharmonic. Or we could have sports contests. Wouldn't it be great to have the winner of their World Series play the winner of ours? As a sports fan, I'd love it. Wouldn't you?"
Ah, Nelson thought, a moment of frivolity. Excellent time for a sneaky fast ball. "I'd love to see the Red Sox take on the Birmingham Alloys—but I digress. Do you think President Callaway and President Bourque might discuss travel restrictions?"
"Travel restrictions?" Katz faked a moment of confusion. He knew what was coming, but he wanted time to properly frame his answer.
Nelson sat up straighter, and the show's director, recognizing his body language, signaled the cameraman to zoom in on him. "Yes. I'm referring to the armed border crossings. Some have suggested that in any quid pro quo, Callaway should ask—maybe demand is the right word—that the borders be disarmed and that the CSA allow unimpeded travel to the north, especially by Blacks."
It was back to
the two-shot then, and the camera now caught Katz mopping his brow. Unfortunately, the handkerchief caught the edge of his comb-over and tore it away from its hair-spray moorings, leaving visible a small patch of shiny white scalp. Katz tried to pat the comb-over back in place and answer the question at the same time.
"We're talking about a meeting here, Roger, just a meeting, not a negotiation," Katz said, struggling to maintain his composure. "Of course, I can't predict how the discussions might go, but that kind of speculation is rarely useful."
The camera came back to Nelson. "I see." He said, disappointed. He turned to look into the camera. "We'll be right back," he said, smiling.
After the commercial, the show opened again with a two-shot. Katz's hair was somehow back in place and his brow was dry, and Nelson was checking his notes. "Let me change the subject, Marty…"
"Of course," Katz said, relieved.
"I know you're allergic to hypothetical questions, Marty, but I'd be remiss if I didn't ask you a few."
Katz nodded a tepid go-ahead.
"Okay," Nelson said. "Let's say that the meeting turns into a negotiation.
What kind of deal might we strike? What would the CSA want from us? What would we want in return?"
Katz produced a slow-motion shrug. "As you say, those are hypothetical questions…"
"Yes, but we all know that the Confederacy is in economic trouble. It certainly isn't hard to imagine Bourque asking for financial aid…"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Katz said, ducking that one. "I've already offered all of my speculations."
"Would Callaway be open to a request for financial aid?"
"The subject hasn't come up, so I can't really answer that question," Katz said.
"But if the subject did come up…"
"Roger, please—not only is that a hypothetical question, it's a question for the President, not me."
Nelson wasn't about to let go. "Okay, so let's say that the two Presidents have had their meeting. How will you decide whether or not it's been a success?"
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 13