Bat out of Hell

by Alan Gold

  “To do so, I’ll need to use the USA Patriot Act, Title V, or whatever, to compulsorily purchase the land if it’s not owned already by the federal government. So, that’s my decision. Much of what you’ve suggested will be carried out, but so will the protection of the American people. That’s as far as I’m willing to go.”

  Daniel was about to argue, but the president interrupted him, “Daniel, I think I know what you’re going to say . . . that it was we human beings who caused the problem the bats are now suffering, so it’s ethically unfair, if not unconscionable, for us to destroy these creatures. I agree. But someone or something has to lose in this unholy equation, and it’s not going to be human beings. I’m sorry, but that’s my decision.”

  Debra and Daniel remained silent for a few moments, thinking through what President Thomas had said. After a couple of seconds, Debra nodded and said, “That’s a realistic compromise. We’d spent the night working out the risks of transporting a diseased colony, and we could have done it, but I hear what you’re saying, Mr. President, and it makes eminently good sense. Even if the risks were absolutely minimal, the fear in the public’s mind would be palpable. But if we say that we’re destroying the killers, but putting those in danger into a sort of bat hospital until they’re better, then it’ll be a much easier job to sell.”

  The president nodded. “Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement. It’ll make it an easier sell to congress and the American people. How do you propose we progress from here?”

  “Well,” said Debra, “you should advise the secretary-general of the United Nations of the US decision. My group will work on the science, and General Coles and his Pentagon group will work on the logistics. You’ll have to get the secretary of agriculture to work on land acquisition. I’ll present the secretary-general with our paper, which presumably he’ll then present to the General Assembly so that ambassadors can transmit it to their governments. Let’s just hope that the rest of the world agrees with the way we’re going about things.”

  “And there’s our first major problem,” said the president. “I’m confident that as a nation, we can set aside land to get our bats back to normal. I’m sure Britain and France and other European nations can do the same. China, Russia, India, and other such countries too, in all likelihood, and I don’t envisage major problems in the rest of Asia, South America, or Australasia. But the real problems we’re going to face are in Africa and the Middle East. They’re still enormously tribal, and any attempt to compulsorily acquire land by a central government will be resisted in the most vehement and virulent manner, probably leading to insurrections, wars, or God only knows what else. Knowing the mentality of the people in these areas, especially the Middle East, they’d rather let people die than lose an inch of traditional tribal land to the government.

  “But those aren’t our problems, right now,” he said, pushing back on his chair and standing. “I’m only concerned with the safety and security of the American people, and this is as good a concept as I’ve yet heard. Well done, both of you.”

  The breakfast was over, and they’d achieved most of what they’d been hoping for. As he walked them to the door, he said, “Okay, Debra, you get to work, and I’ll start to bed down the administrative side. Naturally, I’ll need a full analysis of your concept before I go too far, but on the assumption that it’ll work and other scientists give it the green light, we could be in business within six months.”

  STARBUCKS CAFÉ CORNER OF THIRTY-FIFTH AND FIFTH, MANHATTAN

  Tom Pollard, president of CHAT, slowly stirred his coffee as he pondered the phone call half an hour ago. His chairperson, Donna McCabe, wanted to meet with him but out of the office. He’d agreed to meet her in what he called his boardroom, a nearby Starbucks where he could indulge himself in a grande white chocolate mocha, half of which he’d already drunk waiting for Donna.

  He was looking forward to the meeting. His relationship with Donna had been cool when she’d taken over the chair from her predecessor six months earlier, but as the dollars had rolled in and CHAT had become one of the most media savvy and talked about animal rights organizations in the land, he became the golden-haired boy of the CHAT board of directors. Donna still treated him coolly, but he put that down to her being a New York attorney and a former state prosecutor.

  Sure, things had taken a nosedive recently with the murder of the old guy in Florida and especially when CHAT, through some business card of a former employee, was linked by the FBI to the murder of the secretary of health and her family . . . linkages that he’d managed to evade by proving his and CHAT’s innocence, and he would certainly have been axed by Donna had he not used his persuasive powers with the older board members and worked the numbers. Since then, he’d done some magnificent footwork over the bats issue, got Hollywood and the popular television media behind him, and raised awareness of CHAT so that it was the preeminent force that the government, universities, and others now had to reckon. Sure, Donna still was wary of him—cautious and cool to him in meetings—but he had most of the board on his side, and as the new chair, she was not on sufficiently solid ground to move against him. But now that the organization’s coffers were overflowing, and as soon as she had a chance to read the plans he’d drawn up over the past few days, he was absolutely certain that he’d go from zero to hero in her estimation. It would be the turning point in appreciation of him.

  Fortunately, since that moron, that idiot philosopher, that psychopath Professor Stuart Chalmers, had been arrested and incarcerated, singing like a songbird and probably in a straightjacket, all of his troubles were behind him.

  Pollard looked down at the adjacent seat where the manila folder he’d placed there promised another year of spectacular success. It contained a four-page document, a plan for the next twelve months of CHAT activities; some were financial appeals, some were stunts that he wanted to carry out to keep himself and the organization on the front pages, and some were awareness raising activities in congress that he wanted to pursue through the appointment of a Washington political lobby group. He’d covered his tracks sufficiently and cleanly so that neither she nor anybody on the board would realize that he was a consultant to the lobby group, taking 25 percent off the top of their very handsome fee from CHAT.

  He looked up when he heard the door open and saw Donna McCabe walk in. She smiled, waved at him, and ordered a short black from the service desk. She carried it over to his table.

  “How are you, Tom?” she asked, putting her briefcase down on the chair next to her.

  “Good thanks, Debra. How are things in the big wide world of Manhattan law firms?”

  She smiled and didn’t answer. “Tom, I’ll come straight to the point. There’s no need for you to return to your office this afternoon. Your desk is being cleared by a security team, your staff is being briefed by my assistant, the passwords on your computer are being changed as we speak, and your swipe cards will no longer work to get you into the building, the elevator, or the parking lot. Your personal effects are being bagged for return to your home, and you’ve been removed as the registered driver of your company car. In short, Tom, I’m firing you.”

  He looked at her in astonishment, his jaw dropping. But before he could say anything, she continued, “There are a number of reasons, but the most pressing is the fact that late last night, I was contacted by Ted Marmoullian, White House chief of security. Because of the terrorism and other security issues involving the arrest of this rogue professor, Stuart Chalmers, and knowing that I was a senior partner in a large law firm, Mr. Marmoullian did me the honor of giving me some confidential information relating to you and CHAT.

  “Because of my position with my law firm, they believed me when I’ve assured them of my confidentiality, and they’ve let me know the outcome from a number of interviews they’ve conducted with Professor Chalmers since his arraignment. Why me and not you? Simply because some of the pertinent matters raised in these interviews relate to your activities within CHAT. Ch
almers has implicated you in a series of very serious crimes. The Bureau has warrants to search your office, your computers, and your home, at the same time as they’re interviewing you,” she looked at her watch, “which should be in about ten minutes or so. I told them I was meeting you in here.

  “The reason they haven’t interviewed you yet, Tom, is because I’ve asked them to let me fire you first. However, as soon as I leave this coffee shop, they’ll be taking you to Bureau headquarters because Chalmers has connected you with the crimes and has said that in a number of the more serious ones, you were a willing collaborator. He’s saying that you provided him with the information he needed concerning laboratories that were experimenting with live animals and that you told him stuff that enabled him to commit his crimes.”

  Pollard shook his head vigorously and was about to deny everything when Donna held up her hand and said curtly, “Whether it’s true or not, Tom, isn’t the point. I hope you can establish your innocence. What’s crucial to CHAT is that the FBI is going to connect you to major crimes and even the murder of a secretary of state, and when the media gets wind of it, it’ll have a drastic effect on the organization. That’s just one of the reasons why I’m dumping you. I’ve been in touch by conference call with the entire board, and it was a unanimous decision. You’ll be paid up for the month and, naturally, we’ll pay your accrued leave and all your rights. And you should consider yourself extremely lucky that we’re paying you these amounts. I’m sure you know what I’m referring to. Let’s just say that my analysis of the financial irregularities and kickbacks from CHAT’s suppliers to you is both illegal, criminal, and immoral. The fact is that we’re making a clean break, and a press announcement of your separation is being emailed to all media as we’re speaking.”

  Still in shock, Tom said numbly, “But if you fire me, it’ll look like I’m guilty. Can’t you see how disastrous it’ll be for me? I never talked to Chalmers, never communicated, never . . . but if you . . . you can’t . . . don’t you understand . . . I’ll be crucified . . .”

  “That’s not my problem, and nor is it CHAT’s. As chair, I have to protect the organization and ensure its governance. If the CEO is interviewed by the FBI and horrific allegations are made, especially when they’re to do with terrorism and the assassination of the secretary of health and her entire family, then whether it’s true or not, we have to protect ourselves. We have to put distance between us. Sorry, but that’s the way it is,” she said, finishing her coffee.

  “I’ll need a lawyer. How am I going to afford a lawyer if you fire me? It’s your responsibility to protect me . . .”

  She breathed deeply. She had promised herself on the way into Starbucks that if he cried poor or threatened or even begged, she’d hit him with both barrels. She’d thought to buffer him from what was coming next because of his dismissal and the impending destruction of his reputation when the Bureau interviewed him, but now he was asking for a lawyer, she saw no reason to spare him.

  “Tom, when I took over as board chair six months ago, I instituted a confidential audit of the organization. It’s brought to light a number of really disturbing issues. Count yourself lucky that the board has agreed with me that we shouldn’t pursue them, but just set you adrift. So why don’t you use the thousands of dollars you’ve claimed on false expenses that our auditors have spent the past few months tracking? Or why don’t you use the fortune we’ve paid to that San Francisco advertising firm, of which you’re a silent partner, for ads that strangely never appeared? Or what about the three employees that are being paid a monthly salary, whose names and addresses are on our books but who oddly haven’t ever appeared at work, whose paychecks go into an account where you’re the only signatory and are registered as living in your parents’ house in Oswego County and your sister’s apartment in the Bronx?”

  As the blood drained from his face, Donna continued, “By our reckoning, that’s over two hundred thousand you’ve stolen from CHAT in the last year alone. We’d normally take action against you for its return, prior to sending papers to the police to prosecute you for theft. However, let’s just say that we’ll write it off to experience and you can put the money you’ve misappropriated to good use in defending yourself. And one last thing, Tom. Please don’t contact me or any of your former staff again. They’ve been instructed not to accept your phone calls on pain of dismissal. Oh, and don’t bother asking for a reference, because nobody who speaks to me will ever want to employ you. So like I say, good luck because you’re certainly going to need it.”

  Donna stood, turned, and walked out. For reasons he would never know, he picked up the folder on the chair beside him and was going to run after her so he could give it to her . . . but then the depth and dimensions of the catastrophe suddenly dawned on him, and he sat down in his chair with a bump.

  He looked at Donna’s receding back as she pushed her way through the door and out into the crowded streets of Manhattan, his head spinning with the news of his radically altered situation. He saw her nod to two men standing on the street, and as she strode down the street toward a cab rank, he saw that they were walking toward the Starbuck’s front door.

  Tom Pollard watched the FBI agents enter the café and move toward his table. He felt as though he was suddenly teetering on the edge of a precipice. But his thoughts were interrupted by the server, who asked breezily, “Can I get you another white chocolate mocha? Don’t they just make your day . . .”

  16

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

  It was a late start to the morning. They’d turned off their alarm clocks and allowed themselves to sleep in because last night’s movie hadn’t finished until 11:00 p.m.; instead of going straight home, they’d wandered the streets, deciding on impulse to pop into an all-night restaurant and indulged themselves in pancakes and hot chocolates, coming back to their apartment as the clock struck 1:00 a.m.

  It was past 9:00 a.m., and Secret Service Senior Agent Brett Anderson was reading the Internet edition of that morning’s Washington Post on his iPad. He glanced over the table to where his fiancée Debra Hart was reading her overnight emails. He didn’t have to be in his office until midday, and he knew that Debra’s first appointment, an interview with Vanity Fair, was scheduled for early afternoon.

  Debra glanced across the table and asked, “So, what’s happening?”

  Without looking up, he answered, “His ratings are on the rebound, thank heavens. Latest poll from the New York Times says that he’s now ten points above the Democrats, with six months to go before November. If he continues like this, he’ll be a shoo-in.”

  Debra smiled. “Y’know, I honestly don’t know whether I’m pleased or disappointed.”

  Now Brett looked up at her. “Why?”

  “Well, I’m a lifelong Democrat so I should be voting for Wainer. But I’m still going to vote for Nathaniel Thomas. If only he wasn’t a Republican.”

  Brett smiled. “You’re still in love with him.”

  “’Course,” said Debra, “so’s every other woman in America. C’mon, he’s brilliant and sexy and gorgeous and everything.”

  “But he can’t dance.”

  Debra laughed. She and Brett had attended a White House ball three weeks earlier, and the president had asked her to dance, much to the excitement of the gossip columnists. But when he’d trodden on her toes three times and seen her wince in pain, he led her off the dance floor and every subsequent time they met, he still continued to apologize for his clumsiness. His wife had even sent her a gift certificate for a pedicure with a funny card one of his children had hand drawn showing the president as a huge bear and Debra as a little fairy called Twinkletoes.

  Brett sipped his coffee and said, “Y’know, I honestly thought he’d dived too far down in the polls to recover for a second term, after all that compulsory land purchase and the difficulties in relocating the bats. But the public is very forgiving, and now that things are settling down . . .”

  “This last email fro
m Ohio University says that the latest test results on the relocated Oregon bats show the viral load has dropped significantly. It’s very encouraging.”

  “Are you going to put out a press release?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nope, the president is still insisting that we let the thing remain quiet and low profile until we’re out of the danger zone with all the relocated colonies. But it does look very encouraging.”

  “Is that fair? Surely you deserve . . .”

  “Nothing,” she insisted. “This was the plan proposed to congress and the United Nations by the president of United States of America. He was generous enough in acknowledging me and my team, but . . .”

  “And if it had failed,” said Brett, “it would have been your plan and your neck on the chopping block.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Bush, Clinton, Jimmy Carter, maybe, but not Nat Thomas,” she insisted. “He’d never have used me as a scapegoat if the results hadn’t been good. He’s not like that. He’d have stepped up to the microphones, said something like, ‘well, we tried and it didn’t work,’ and then he’d have worn the criticism. You know he would.”

  Brett smiled. “You are a bit in love with him!”

  “The only reason I’m marrying you is because he’s not available,” she quipped.

  They continued with their breakfast, pouring more coffee and munching on toast before Debra said, “Well, enough of this frivolity. I should go to my office and check on things. We’re expecting results from tests of relocated at-risk colonies in New Mexico and Wyoming today, so hopefully that’ll add more definition to our research on what’s happening to the bats.”

  Brett nodded. “Must be frustrating, all this waiting and watching for the bats to calm down and to determine whether or not the viruses have diminished in their bodies,” he said softly.