by Alan Gold
“But no,” Pollard insisted, “instead of looking at the obvious, they’re mounting a PR campaign, going for the most visible target and showing Londoners that they’re doing something. It’s disgusting.”
Jay Silvester sipped his mineral water and looked at Pollard over the lip of the glass. When the appointment had been made, he’d agreed to give the dude half an hour for the pitch, which Jay assumed would be for money. Jay was the world’s highest grossing performer, higher even than pretty-boy actors of Hollywood, myrmidons of Tinseltown, those puffed up nonentities who couldn’t remember more than a couple of lines of dialogue per scene and had to have a director tell them how to look and walk and eat and talk. Yes, he was friends with the superstars, actors whose faces beamed down from massive roadside billboards, but deep down, he had no respect for any of them. And Jay knew what each and every one of them made . . . tens of millions per movie just for their names on the covers of magazines and most of the motherfuckers couldn’t even act to save their lives. Put ’em on a stage, and . . . kerpowee . . . they’d be struck dumb in fear of the audience.
But Jay had to go out live in front of his fans every night for months while he and the band were on tour, and he had to perform every note to perfection each time he sang. Nobody told him how to do his job. And because of his vast wealth—he didn’t even know how much, but his managers assured him that it was a couple of billion—he was always a prey to parasites and con artists, so he had every appointment vetted by his staff, every phone call recorded, every letter opened and read by his secretaries so that he’d never, ever, be accused of plagiarism or rip-offs or anything.
It had taken Pollard a week to set up this appointment, a week of begging, pressure, and persistence. The dude had been researched, analyzed, scrutinized, and sanitized because nobody got to see Jay Silvester on business without Jay and his people knowing everything about the dude. But this dude had come up kosher, so Jay, being a huge cash supporter of CHAT and having donated 10 percent of the proceeds of one of his albums to them, had agreed to see him.
At first, the dude had seemed nervous, shuffling his feet. Jay hated people who were nervous. He always joked, as somebody diffidently approached him, that he wasn’t the fucking president of the United States or the pope for god’s sake. But his personal assistant was always reminding him that when he was meeting a fan or some low-life reporter for the first time, Jay might be full of confidence, but the fan or the reporter was in the presence of somebody world-famous and might be nervous. Still, he didn’t expect the president of CHAT, who he’d met once or twice at receptions, to be nervous when he was alone in a room, just the two of them—man to man.
And the dude had brought him news that the Brits were planning to kill all the birds in the skies of London just because they were panicking over some fucked-up virus that had only killed 452 people. Shit, that was how many died on the roads in a day, and nobody was talking about killing all the cars.
“So what do you want me to do, Tom? You want money for a campaign or what?”
Pollard shook his head. “No, no money. I want you to go on national television and condemn what the British are planning to do. If we . . . you . . . can put pressure on the government of Britain, the people might rally and stop this hideous slaughter of innocent animals.”
“Okay. No sweat. I’ll have my people set it up. First off, though, I’ll need proof that the Brits are actually going to kill the birds, though. I can’t get the media in here to beat the drum and then make a fool of myself.”
“I can’t give you proof, Jay. Only to tell you that my source, who’s highly placed at Health, has found out the plans and has told us. She’s been 100 percent correct about everything she’s told us in the past, and these plans are well underway. She’s seen them. That’s why she came and told us.”
“Can I speak to her?” asked Jay.
“Sure. I told her you wouldn’t act without proof. So she agreed to reveal her identity once and once only. And only to you. Here’s her phone number at Health. She’s waiting for your call. She suggests that instead of you phoning her on her direct number, you phone the switchboard and ask for her. That’ll prove to you that she really works there.”
Jay nodded, put on his headphones, and Skyped the numbers on the piece of paper Tom gave him. Within moments, the phone was answered.
“Department of Health and Human Services,” said the receptionist in Washington, “how may I direct your call?”
“Could I please speak to Miss Christine Knowles.”
“Certainly, putting you through to Miss Knowles’s office.”
He looked at Tom, who was sitting there, much more confident of himself.
“Miss Knowles’s office,” said the assistant.
“Hi, could you please tell me Miss Knowles’s position in the Department of Health?” he asked.
“Sure, Miss Knowles is Deputy Under Secretary of Health and Human Services.”
“Might I speak with Miss Knowles?” asked Jay, suddenly impressed.
“Who may I say is calling?” asked the assistant.
Jay looked at the piece of paper Tom had given to him.
“Tell her Mr. Underwood is calling her. Jonathan Underwood.”
“Certainly, Mr. Underwood. Hold the line a moment, will you please.”
A couple of seconds later, a husky female voice answered and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Silvester. I was hoping that you’d call.”
PRIME MINISTER’S RESIDENCE DOWNING STREET, WHITEHALL, LONDON
The secretary-general of the United Nations cut an elegant figure on the screen. Tall, muscular, and blond-haired, the chisel-faced severity of SvenPeter-Knut Berentsen glaring through the large television monitor at the assembly of the world’s media in the pressroom of Number 10, belied a wickedly funny personality kept firmly hidden except in private, a refreshing development since the austerity days of the humorless Ban Ki-moon. Standing beside the plasma screen and the face of the secretary-general was the homely and profoundly brilliant prime minister of the United Kingdom—Scots-born but knowing that for his audience, he had to modulate his Highland accent, especially when it came to question time.
“Let me begin by saying,” Secretary Berentsen said, “that I am extremely grateful to the prime minister and the citizens of Great Britain for allowing the rapid response team to work with and learn from the local scientists and medical professionals in the search for the cure of this dreadful virus. Great Britain, as we all know, is blessed with some of the world’s most acclaimed men and women operating in these fields of science and medicine, but as the prime minister was the first to realize when I asked him to allow the rapid response team into his country to assist, this is a global problem and requires all the nations of the world to work together.
“Over the past three or four years, a total of nearly half a million people throughout the world have been struck down with new and virulent viruses, the source or sources of which are still a mystery. Without global cooperation, finding a reason and a cure will be longer, and more difficult and will lead to many more unnecessary deaths. As the prime minister has so generously shown, international cooperation is our passport to ultimate success.”
The reporters were furiously scribbling down the secretary-general’s words. They continued to take down notes when the prime minister took up the theme of cooperation and stated that if a leading nation like Great Britain, which itself was at the very cutting edge of brilliant scientific and medical research, could work side by side with the rapid response team, then every nation in the world should be willing to do the same.
When the set speeches were over, the first questions were addressed to the prime minister. They were simple questions, planted by the press office and asked by tame reporters in the audience, to which he gave simple answers.
Then Maggie Tynan, one of the House of Commons reporters who worked for the political desk of the BBC, stood to ask, “Do either you, Prime Minister, or you Secretary-
General, have any comment on the statement made by rock star and environmentalist Jay Silvester from New York in the past hour, condemning the British government’s decision to exterminate every bird and bat in the United Kingdom?”
Surprised reporters turned to stare at her. The prime minister looked at Maggie in utter shock. “Excuse me?”
It took the secretary-general a couple of seconds before the question had traveled across the Atlantic to the United States, but he looked as shocked as the prime minister did.
She repeated the question.
“This pop star is saying we’re going to do what?” asked the prime minister.
“Kill all the birds and bats in the UK. Apparently one of the conclusions of the rapid response team is that this virus has been spread by flying animals, and a recommendation coming to you today is for a mass extermination of all birds and bats. Jay Silvester and Citizens for Humane Animal Treatment have held a press conference at the Waldorf Astoria saying that mass extermination of British birds is the next phase in fighting this virus,” said Maggie. “They’re condemning any such move by the British government and saying . . . I quote . . . ‘Britons must not allow their government to exterminate millions and millions of innocent birds. If it does so, the voice of Natural England will be silenced.’”
She continued to glance at the notes handed to her at the beginning of the PM’s press conference and said, “Silvester says that other reservoirs for this viral outbreak have been eliminated, and birds and bats are the most likely candidates for the spread. However, he goes on to say that the virus could have many causes and that the execution of all British birds is species genocide and immoral.”
Recovering slightly, Alistair Blain said, “I haven’t seen the video or any reports of this press conference, but I seem to recall that Mr. Silvester is a pop singer and doesn’t have the knowledge or qualifications of British scientists or the rapid response team working to find the source of this outbreak. How on earth Mr. Silvester came by this information, which hasn’t been seen by me, if it exists, is a matter I’ll investigate. And as I understand from US newspaper reports, this organization, this Citizens for Humane Animal Treatment, was responsible for the death of a man recently in Florida. However high profile Mr. Silvester is, I hardly think he’s in a position to pontificate about this virus, what’s spreading it, or how we’re dealing with the outbreak.”
Not willing to let the spotlight fall on any other reporter, Maggie quickly continued, “Would you deny, then, Prime Minister, that if the source is found to be birds, you will order their mass extermination?”
“I’ll neither confirm nor deny anything. I won’t comment further until I’ve seen the latest report from our scientists. As of this moment, I am informed that we have no definitive understanding of how this virus has infected so many people. And I’m certainly not going to speculate as to what the carrier might be. But be assured that whatever it is, we will deal with it efficiently and thoroughly, whether it’s birds or rats or fleas or whatever,” he told her. “Our primary responsibility is the safety and security of the people of Great Britain, not protecting birds or bats.”
His press secretary shuddered when his boss had said these words. He could see tomorrow’s headlines now, and he was terrified of the response.
There was uproar in London and in New York, with questions flung haphazardly at both world leaders. Their respective press officers decided that it was time to extricate them from the fray, and with thanks and excuses mumbled into microphones, the two men smiled, waved at the reporters, and exited stage left.
When he was in the corridor walking back to his private office, his press secretary asked softly, “How could you have said that about not protecting birds. Do you realize the effect that’ll have on the lunar left? On the animal lobby? On rural voters?”
But Alistair Blain hissed at his press secretary, “And how the hell could you have let me walk into that? Why didn’t you warn me this fucking pop star had said we were going to kill all the birds in England?”
“Boss, I didn’t know. I swear. I didn’t even know this Jay Silvester person was going to be holding a press conference. I’ll find out all the details, and we’ll put out a press statement . . .”
“Too fucking late. The damage is already done,” the prime minister snapped, walking rapidly ahead of the hapless staff member.
The prime minister only had to wait fifteen minutes before the first headlines started to appear on BBC News and the other broadcast channels.
The unctuous announcer said, “Reports are circulating that a plan is being drawn up to exterminate all British birds if they’re found guilty of being the carrier of the London virus which has so far claimed the lives of nearly five hundred Britons. In an effort to halt the spread, Prime Minister Alistair Blain would neither confirm nor deny that such a plan existed, but international superstar Jay Silvester says that his organization has reports that point to species of British birds as being the culprits. Our reporter, Maggie Tynan, has just been at a press conference at Downing Street.”
The screen changed to show one of the most famous front doors in the world, with two police officers standing like statues on either side. The camera panned sideways to show Maggie, microphone in hand. Her head was pointed theatrically toward Number 10. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to face the camera and said, “While the entire nation is in the grip of panic about the London virus, could it be that tomorrow, Britons will no longer hear a dawn chorus of robins and finches and jays? Well, that could happen if Prime Minister Blain agrees with a top secret report from British scientists studying the cause of the virus outbreak crippling the capital, claiming that it’s our feathered residents that are responsible. Just hours ago in New York, rock legend Jay Silvester, an environmentalist and animal rights activist, stunned reporters by revealing what he claims is the content of a recommendation about to be made by the rapid response team assisting local doctors in attempting to uncover the source of the virus outbreak. That recommendation is the capture and extinction of all flying animals above the level of insects. Birds and bats. These animals, according to the report, could be the reservoirs of the deadly disease. If the recent concerns about the bird flu from Asia haven’t been worrying enough, to add to the grave concerns, recent research has identified birds as the cause of the pandemic of influenza in 1918 that killed anywhere from twenty to one hundred million people worldwide. When I asked Prime Minister Blain whether he’d follow the recommendations of the team to cull all birds, this was his response . . .”
The screen cut to a flustered prime minister before the podium, listening intently to the question Maggie had asked, not half an hour earlier.
Thirty feet away from where Maggie was standing and presenting her live report, deep within the bowels of Number 10 and silenced from the outside world by two layers of bombproof glass, the PM’s flustered press secretary froze as he heard the scream, “Get me that fucking report. Now!”
CONFERENCE ROOM NO. 4 THE WALDORF-ASTORIA, MANHATTAN
Had it been a quiz for who had the most famous face, followers and fans would have been torn in two. DeLile Carpenter, the great-granddaughter of a tobacco farm slave, was the most famous and richest media personality in America—possibly the world. Jay Silvester was as rich and famous as a rock star actor in Hollywood movies, promoter of environmental and animal liberation causes, and friend and confidant of Third World presidents and prime ministers fighting the colonial hegemony of the United States and its European allies.
Despite the clamor to snare him for Fox, CNN, ABC, and print and radio media, Silvester’s press people had granted an exclusive interview only to DeLile on NBC; she had attended the press conference and now was sitting three rooms away from the ballroom where the other media had been gathered. She sat opposite Jay in an armchair. He chose to sit in a dining room Carver chair to give his body greater definition, and hence more gravitas during the interview. He didn’t like his body looking awkward on c
ouches when he was being interviewed by late-night TV talk show hosts; it made him feel awkward, and if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was that for a man approaching his mid-forties, he was in remarkably good shape.
DeLile shooed away the technician who was fiddling around with the lapel microphone and adjusted it herself. The boom mike would be positioned over Jay. Lights were adjusted and smoke alarms were turned off in case their heat activated them during the interview, and two cameras were dollied in and out to get precisely the right angle for DeLile’s left-side profile. Last minute makeup was applied to both, now that the lights were making the room hot, and the floor manager was reminding DeLile of the cues he would use and the questions she would ask. It would be a live cut to the studio, interrupting the prerecorded current affairs show 24/7 with breaking news.
Listening intently on his headphones to 24/7’s director back in the studio, the segment director said loudly, “Okay everybody, we go live in sixty seconds. Clear everybody except the talent from the set, please. Jay, DeLile, do you want water?”
Both shook their heads and cleared their throats. They’d rehearsed the first couple of questions and rubbed their teeth with their tongues to get that momentary shine when the viewers first saw them.