I didn’t doubt that the sheik was a powerful and influential man, but I had a hard time picturing the Al Muttahedah soldiers dropping their guns and curling up into the fetal position when we delivered the message. As far as I could tell we had no weapons, and while Carter was an intimidating presence, I was sure that even Uncle Al had figured out that pro wrestling was fake by now.
When I ran my concern by Carter, he responded simply, “We have a secret weapon.”
“So secret it doesn’t exist?”
“Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it.”
And that was the end of the conversation.
On the third day, we were awoken before sunrise and introduced to the men who were going to get us over the border. Boys might be a more appropriate term, as they didn’t look a day over sixteen. They charged us what I thought was a pretty reasonable $300 USD per head, and $500 if motorbikes were used. When factoring in my bad leg, the high elevation, and rocky terrain, it wasn’t much of a choice.
The motorbikes were hidden in a nearby olive orchard, alongside a barbed wire fence that separated Turkey and Syria. They did loan us helmets and bulletproof vests, which made me feel a little better. As did the Kalashnikov rifles they had strapped to their backs.
We drove through the orchard, parallel to the fence, for about a mile, until we reached a breach in the barbed wire. We passed through, and just like that we had entered the war torn country. Lucky us.
We bounced over the rough terrain, through dried-out riverbeds, and past fields of rosemary. It was only about sixty degrees, but I was sweating like I’d just taken a shower, making my grip even more precarious.
We were dropped off on the edge of a rocky plateau beside a deserted road, deep in the heart of nowhere. With no further instructions, our guides sped away, leaving us as sitting ducks for the death-squad government militia “Shabiha,” and with thoughts of all the other journalists who never made it out of here alive.
With no other options in sight, we began to walk … to where, I had no idea. But we didn’t even get a quarter of a mile before we saw a pickup truck barreling in our direction. As it grew closer, I started having Serbia flashbacks.
The truck skidded to a stop in front of us, and a bunch of bandana-wearing men with rifles leaped out and circled us. I wondered if our smugglers got more than $500 from these guys for flipping them a couple of valuable hostages—it wouldn’t be the first time we’d been double-crossed.
They proceeded to blindfold us, and all I could do was sigh … here we go again.
Chapter 14
New York City
Gwen escaped the wintry bluster, entering the dimly lit Japanese restaurant, Chibi O’s. Her first thought—besides it was nice to feel her hands again—was that this place was much nicer than the joints she and Allison used to frequent in their college days.
Through the darkness, which she couldn’t decide if it was ambiance or an attempt to lower the electric bill, she spotted Allison Cooper’s sophisticated blonde bob. The spotting was mutual, as Allison stood, displaying the power-suit of an ad executive. Gwen made her way to her, and the old friends embraced.
They’d known each other from growing up together in Rockfield, but it wasn’t until they both attended college in the big city—Gwen at Columbia, Allison at NYU—that they really became close. And when JP decided he’d rather explore the world than a life with her, Allison was the person who was there for her. She’d never forget that.
Nowadays, they were lucky to pull off these lunches in the city twice a year. But with Gwen’s time being sucked away by the small town paper she ran, and Allison trying to balance her two kids and husband, along with her recent return to the work force, it took six months of negotiations to secure this date.
“You look great,” Gwen said cheerfully as they took a seat at their table. “I love the hair.”
“I had them dim the lights, so I wouldn’t look bad sitting next to this twenty-five-year-old supermodel I was having lunch with.”
Gwen laughed. “When will she be arriving?”
“Don’t play humble with me, Gwendolyn. There’s a reason the boys have been chasing you around since we were in third grade. And you certainly don’t look like someone who is staring down their twenty-year high school reunion.”
Gwen feigned surprise. “Is that this year?”
“Being that I am in charge of the reunion committee, I know for a fact that you have received multiple notices for the past three months.”
Gwen smiled. “They must not have arrived yet—you know Rockfield, the mail is still delivered by Pony Express.”
A young Asian waitress brought a tray of sake. Gwen flashed a look of surprise. “I thought you were working?” They had picked Chibi O’s because it was near Allison’s office on East 33rd Street.
She shrugged. “I’m in advertising … haven’t you ever seen Mad Men?”
“I run a small town newspaper. Studies have confirmed that it’s the equivalent of raising thirty-two children. So I don’t really have time for television.”
“Are we playing top this? Because I believe those same studies proved that raising my two children equated to being a warden at an overpopulated prison. Do you want to see photos of them? I’m obligated by Manhattan law to ask.”
“Do they look any different than they did in the Christmas card? If not, not really.”
“You’re missing out on the two hundred photos I have stored on my phone of Gracie’s dance recital. Opportunities like this don’t grow on a tree.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Your loss. But I’m much more interested in seeing pictures of your child, anyway,” Allison said with a sly grin.
“My child? Do you know something I don’t?”
Still grinning, she reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping, and pushed it across the table. It was of Gwen and JP entering Byron’s charity dinner at the NoMad, looking happier than she remembered them being that night. Gwen looked at the caption to the photo, which referred to her as “the dashing” JP Warner’s “latest gal pal” … how flattering.
“So what do you think of us … being back together?” Gwen asked with hesitation. This was the woman she’d bash JP to on a nightly basis for months after the breakup. She probably thought she’d lost her mind.
“I think it’s great. You got the one that got away. What are the odds? It’s like winning the lottery … just with better sex.”
Gwen didn’t know what to do with that one, but was happy for the support.
“By the way you’re blushing, I’ll take it that you agree with my assessment. So when’s the wedding?”
“We’re taking it slow this time.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What’s uh-oh?”
“That tone—it’s the ‘end of the Stephen Era’ drone. Right before the divorce.”
“We’re just taking our time. JP’s been through a lot this past year—held hostage, Noah’s death …”
Allison’s face saddened. “I still can’t believe Noah Warner is gone. I used to babysit for him when he was like five.”
Gwen nodded—there wasn’t anything to add when it came to such a tragedy. “I don’t mean to sound negative—for the most part it’s been great. Over the holidays, he even worked with my father to build us a tree house on his family’s property. It was the one where we once carved our names and true love forever when we were kids.”
“Oh. My. God! He built you an actual love nest? That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t even get Marty to wash the dishes.”
“It was, but it also highlights our biggest obstacle. Which is that JP’s trying to turn back the clock—it’s like he wants to pick up where we left off all those years ago. But I want the us of today, with all the baggage of time that comes with it. Sometimes I feel like we’re living in different decades.”
“Sounds to me like you’re over-thinking things. When anyone asks Marty and me how we do it … like
we have a clue! … I tell them the key is we don’t have time to think, and when we do we’re too tired. I believe there’s something to that.”
Gwen felt a wave of regret come over her. “I think I made a big mistake. I convinced JP to go on a trip so that he could ‘figure things out.’ What if I sent him away for good this time?”
“Oh, please, the guy had fifteen years to think about things, and the only answer he came up with was that he wanted to build his little Gwendolyn a tree fort.”
Gwen smiled, as the waitress brought a tray of assorted foods—tempura, chicken teriyaki, salmon yakimono. “Hope you don’t mind, I ordered for us. I only have an hour for lunch,” Allison said.
“Not a problem,” Gwen replied, and dug in to the tempura. “But enough about me and my eternal relationship issues. How are you and Marty doing?”
“He’s a new man. Or maybe he’s back to being the man from before. Getting laid-off by the firm crushed him—how long was he there, like fourteen or fifteen years? Basically since he graduated from Wharton—and he’s always connected his self-esteem to providing for the kids and me. I kept telling him that there is always a silver lining in everything, and you know what, he never would have started his consulting business if he hadn’t been let go. So it all worked out in the end.”
“So business is good?”
“It was a struggle at first, but things have really picked up lately. He got a couple big clients. Even sent one of them my way for their YP needs, which has got me off to a good start at Whitley.”
“Ah … the couple that shares clients stays together. So you’re happy to be back in advertising?”
“I’m not sure Yellow Pages advertising is what I had in mind, but it’s helped out with the bills while Marty was getting his feet underneath him.”
“I had no idea people still used the Yellow Pages.”
“Must be the same three people that still read newspapers.”
“Touché.”
“It’s not sexy, but it’s an eight billion dollar industry. And is still the top advertising source for services like plumbers, propane, and stuttering lawyers.”
“Stuttering lawyers?”
“You know, the sleaze balls that put AAA in front of their name so they can be first alphabetically. A-A-A Ambulance Chasers at Law.”
Gwen laughed. “Wow, look at you, all in the business.”
She thought back to those days when their canvases were blank, and anything seemed possible. They vowed, and pinky-swore, that they would chase their dreams to the ends of the earth. Gwen would be the editor at the New York Times, and Allison was going to be the top ad executive in the city. And suddenly it hit her that their dreams would never come true.
Or maybe they did come true—they just didn’t know what their real dreams were back then—and that reaching their dreams wasn’t the hard part … holding onto them was.
Chapter 15
Allison Cooper entered the building on East 33rd Street. The walk from Chibi O’s was just three blocks, but it seemed like fifty on the cold afternoon.
She took the creaky elevator ride to the sixth floor, and entered the offices of Hugo Whitley YPA. When she arrived at her office, she found Dennis Whitley waiting for her—Hugo’s son, who now ran the place.
“I’m really worried about General Washington’s. Have you been able to get that meeting yet?” he began.
“Hello to you too, Dennis. And you’re really worried about an account that has tripled in size in the last six months? One that now bills almost four million, opens new locations seemingly on an hourly basis, and unlike most of your clients, actually takes our advice? That’s the client you’re worried about?”
She almost laughed at bragging about the four million—that used to be the budgeted bar-tab for some of the accounts she worked on at Dunn & Hill, back when she was a young career-climber.
“It’s about diversifying funds. What if you get hit by a bus today, then we’re up shit creek without a paddle?”
Only if that bus came through the sixth floor window, because she wasn’t getting out of here until way past dinner time tonight. But she understood his point. She was the one who had brought the client in—with Marty’s big assist—and David Tully, the head honcho, would only communicate with her. So the only thing keeping her from running off with the account and starting her own business was a flimsy non-compete document she signed, but it likely wouldn’t hold up in court. By getting a meeting with the entire staff, theoretically, Tully could become comfortable with working with Hugo Whitley YPA, and not Allison Cooper. But theory and reality rarely intersected in life, which was no different in this case, as he’d refused her requests for months.
Their conversation was interrupted by her intercom, “Allison—I have Mr. Tully on the phone for you.”
Speaking of the devil.
“Get that meeting,” Dennis said, as he bounced out of her office.
Allison took a deep breath before picking up. She had no idea why she got this case of nerves before they spoke, especially since they’d spoken practically every day during the workweek, and sometimes on weekends, over the last six months. For goodness sake, he’s the owner of a carpet cleaning business, not the actual General Washington, Allison!
“David—good afternoon,” she began. “What can I do for you today?”
“I was going over the February bills, love, and I had a question about three directories in Florida—Pompano Beach, West Palm, and Delray Beach,” he replied in his dignified British accent. The accent always threw her off, since his company was headquartered in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, and was named after George Washington. You couldn’t get much more American than that. He was born and raised in the UK, before coming to the States as a young man. “I met a girl, and never left,” was the way he explained his staying.
He also spent more time on the tiny details than any CEO she’d ever come across. She couldn’t believe he went through each month’s bill with a fine tooth comb.
“Those ads are for the West Palm location you opened last summer. All three books are within the fifteen mile radius we determined should be used as part of your advertising strategy.”
“I’m aware of my strategy, love. And it’s hard not to be familiar with that area of the country these days … all you need to do is turn on the news.”
Sadly, he was right. The third Huddled Masses attack took place yesterday off the coast of West Palm Beach, Florida, and had been covered incessantly by the news media. The latest incident occurred on a yacht, in which a wealthy family was celebrating their daughter’s sweet-sixteen party. The one captor chained himself to the daughter, and jumped overboard, the heavy chains dragging them to the bottom. Her parents leaped after them, and perished trying to save their daughter.
“It’s just heartbreaking. And misguided. As if murdering that family is going to cure economic inequality,” Allison said, unable to shake the thought of someone doing something similar to her children.
“I often think the world has gone mad, and want to lock myself in a cave and never come out. But I didn’t mean to get off topic—my question was, these directories didn’t come out until last month, February, but they aren’t on the bill?”
And Dennis is really worried about a client who thinks we aren’t billing him enough? She explained once again that he pays in full on the “close” date, which is the date his ad is locked in the directory, usually three to four months prior to publication. So he had already paid for these three books that closed last October, even if the book didn’t hit the street until February.
Once that was cleared up, they moved on to other business. And with the impressive growth of GWCC, there was always much business to cover. New art work proposals, the call data from the individual tracking numbers they placed in each ad, and of course, ad recommendations for his new locations and test markets. There were always new locations. Best. Client. Ever!
He was eager to discuss the progress of the test ma
rket directories. GWCC’s business plan had been focused on small cities and rural towns. But David was always looking to expand his reach, and willing to take chances, so he’d recently created test markets in New York, Chicago, and San Francisco, among other large metro areas.
They spent a half hour on the test markets, including going through each of the discount codes that he obsessed over, before she segued to the most important part of the call … at least when it came to her standing with her boss. “David—we are so thrilled with your account, and are proud to have done our little part to help in this great expansion of General Washington Carpet Cleaning. We feel like you’re our partner, not a client, and Dennis and I would really like to bring our team down to Valley Forge to meet with you, and allow you to get to know the team that’s working around the clock to grow your business.”
She could hear the sigh coming through the phone line. “Haven’t we been over this, love? I hired you to work for me, not meet with me. I believe in doing, not talking about doing.”
“I’m sorry to keep bringing it up, but I think it might be beneficial to meet the entire team.”
“You mean Dennis Whitley thinks it’s the case,” he said. “If he’s concerned that if you leave the agency, I would follow, he’s right. I don’t trust many people with my business, but you and your husband have earned that trust. And because of that, I will put in a call to Dennis and explain the situation, if you think that will be helpful.”
“I would really appreciate that, thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do. Without the help from you and your husband, I would never have been able to accomplish all my goals this past year.”
Chapter 16
Syria
The timeless beauty of Istanbul had been replaced by the horrors of Syria.
Our “captors” who turned out to actually be our “guides,” stashed us under a plastic tarp in the back of the pickup and instructed us to keep out of sight. But the journalism in our blood made it an impossible task not to remove our blindfolds and sneak a peek.
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 6