"It's a start."
"I'll pin ten dollars on the Virgin Mary at the next wop street fair I come across."
"That will cost you twenty bucks."
"For someone whose grandfather helped Benito Mussolini try to conquer North Africa, you pack plenty of altitude, young lady. All right, let's talk about your team."
CHAPTER FOUR
Rick Renard had learned his trade under the best—or worst, depending on where you set the bar integrity-wise—public relations man in the business: Nick Naylor. Naylor had gained notoriety as chief spokesman for the U.S. tobacco industry during its last Herculean struggle against the armies of neo-puritanism. lie ended up serving a twenty-month sentence in a federal prison—minimum security, he would point out as a matter of pride—for allegedly arranging his own kidnapping by anti-smoking terrorists. Now Naylor ministered in the rich loamy pastures of Hollywood, Lending to the vanities of the celluloidariat, a type of client whose needs could never be met and thus guaranteed lifetime employment. Lobbying to get your client nominated for an Oscar, or planting a prejudicial item in the gossips about the spouse currently being dumped, was not, Nick confided to his protege, the heroic stuff of Washington lobbying, yet it was pleasant enough in L.A.'s balmy, moisturized clime. Whenever he reached Nick on his cell phone. Rick could hear the soli, high-pitched whine of German automotive engineering idling on the freeway. "I spent a hundred and twenty thousand on this car," Nick would say. "And do you know, it can go from zero to four miles per hour in twenty minutes."
Nick had been trying to persuade Renard to come join him. The money! The pools! The women! But Rick was not yet ready to surrender to those blandishments, to have his still-sharp edge be filed down by pedicurists in striped
cabanas by turquoise rooftop pools. He had apprenticed well under Nick Naylor. At this point in his career, he was acknowledged by even the most grudging of his peers to be the capital's premier champion of causes so devoid of hope, so lacking in integrity, there was a kind of gallantry to it that aspired to the level of grandeur.
For instance, it was to Renard that the American College of Princes of the Church had turned, hoping to put behind it—to use an apposite word—the altar-boy-groping scandals. They had quietly engaged him to get an American cardinal elected pope. Rick did not succeed at this quest. Being arrested by the Swiss Guard, escorted to the limits of Vatican City and barred ever from re-entering the holy city cannot be said to constitute a public relations triumph, especially when the next pope hailed from Madagascar. And yet he succeeded at changing the conversation back home. No longer were pallid, twitchy former altar boys and their posse of expensive lawyers Topic A.
Bui it was Renard's handling of another steaming-hot religious tuber that had gotten Florence's attention.
A year before, the Reverend Roscoe G. Holybone—"'the G stands for God," as his literature humbly put it—spiritual leader of several hundred thousand devout anil fanatically devoted Southern Baptists, declared from his televised pulpit in Loblolly, Georgia, that the prophet Mohammed was a "degenerate." It was the consensus, even among the stiffer evangelical element, that the Reverend had gone off his metis, but this was scant comfort to the prophet's 1.5 billion followers. Fatwas were issued from a hundred minarets, which seemed only to inflame the Reverend Holybone and his minions, who. like mailed crusaders on the parapets of Acre, responded with burning pitch and missiles, shouting defiance.
This hugger-mugger took place inconveniently in the middle of a presidential primary race. This required all the various candidates to spend precious airtime denouncing the Reverend instead of detailing their bold visions for America's future. Events reached a crescendo when the governor of Georgia was forced into the unenviable position of having to call out the National Guard to protect Reverent! Holybone. who had responded to the latest assaults on his person by barricading himself inside his $12 million Holybone Tabernacle with a die-hard remnant of acolytes, fearsomely armed.
Into this radioactive swamp, few public relations types would dare to wade. Yet only hours after the Reverend's helicopter was brought down by a shoulder-fired missile, there was Rick Renard on practically every TV channel, issuing statements on behalf of the Reverend's heirs, calling for an end to hostilities and for the healing to begin; moreover, pledging $5 million to build a Baptist-Muslim intercultural center on the campus of Holybone University, featuring five basketball courts, each facing east for spontaneous midgame prayer. Today relations between Holyboners and Georgia's admittedly not numerous Muslims are immeasurably more tranquil than during the Days of Rage. Credit for that went not only to whoever had fired the fatal SA-7 at the Reverend's chopper, but also to the deft spinnings of Rick Renard. A man as fearless as that. Florence thought, she wanted on her team.
THE OFFICES Of Renard Strategic Communications International were two blocks from Washington's Dupont Circle, far enough from K Street to be geographically distinct from that porcine corridor—oinking trough, some might say—of American enterprise, and yet close enough so that Rick could have lunch with his friends and soul mates who worked there.
Florence had made the appointment, staling only over the phone that she represented a "significant institutional client." No sweeter syllables existed to a PR man's ear. Renard went through the motions of pretending that he was all booked up that day. then pretended to spot a cancellation. Why, he could see her that very afternoon.
Upon walking into his office, she saw that he had dispensed with the customary Washington Wall of Ego, consisting of framed photographs of the politicians being offered for sale. The price of the politician was indicated by the size of the photo. If the photo showed the politician golfing with the lobbyist, or smoking a Cuban cigar, the client could expect a 10 percent surcharge, as the lobbyist and politician were quite chummy.
Instead. Florence saw behind Renard's desk a floor-to-ceiling mural. It was a version of a famous New Yorker magazine cover showing that the world west of New York City was rather small and not really worth bothering with. In this case, the boundary waters were the Potomac River. Beyond it. where the Pacific
Northwest would normally be, was the word MICROSOFT. Beyond the Pacific Ocean was a land labeled SONY. A lobbyist's tour d'horizon. Of course, neither of these corporate titans was a Renard client, nor in all likelihood would either ever be. His clients by and large lurked in the shadows rather than the bright sunlight. This was hardly cause for shame, for his profession knew none and acknowledged even less.
A row of clocks mounted on the wall indicated the time in various world capitals. This was intended to proclaim Renard Strategic Communications International's global reach. It might be four A.M. in Jakarta, but that fact would not be lost here at world headquarters.
All this Florence took in as Rick Renard rose, smiling, to greet her.
"Ms. Farfaletti." he said, as though it were the most important name in the world. He tried not to stare, but his eyes couldn't help lingering on the unexpected loveliness before him. She reminded him of whatwashisname. the Italian painter—he really must remember the names, it always impressed a certain type of client—Modig-something, the one who painted women with their heads slightly cocked to one side, looking like they were asking the painter, "Won't you please have sex with me?" Sometimes they were nude, which made Renard wish he'd been there in the studio when the paint was still wet.
"Mr. Renard?"
"Sorry. You reminded me of someone. I lave we met. Ms. Farfalelti?" "No. But I'm a meal admirer of your work." "Farfalelti. That would that be ..." "Finnish."
Renard smiled. Always smile when a prospective client makes a joke. "I would have said Danish."
"It means little butterfly. More or less. In Italian." "Is that your married name?" "No, Mr. Renard."
"So, how can I be of service? You said over the phone it involves the Middle Fast." Rick gestured somewhat grandiosely toward his Wall of Clocks. One gave the time in Dubai. "We maintain offices throughout the region."
Rick blushed. "Modern communications these days, you don't really need offices. Per se. But I assure you we're wired in that part of the world. Just this morning I was on the phone to Dubai."
"Really? And what did Dubai have to say?"
"Of course, I can't talk about specific clients. But I think it's fair to say that the situation is far from terrific. Well, what is terrific in that part of the world?"
"Are you still working for the government of North Korea?"
"No. Ms. Farlalctti. That was just one project. And it was before the Japanese thing."
"The launching-the-missile-at-Japan thing?"
Renard cleared his throat. "I am not currently in a business relationship with the government of North Korea."
" 'field of Screams.' Isn't that what the newspapers called it?"
"1 was unaware that the golf course in question had been built with so-called slave labor." Rick sighed. "Slavery's a subjective term, isn't it?"
"Not especially."
"They asked to put on a celebrity pro-am golf tournament. To promote international peace understanding. At the time I thought. Why not? Would I do it again?" Rick shrugged. "Probably- not. But my job is not to make judgments on clients. My job, as I conceive it, is to help them get their message across. This is the strategic part of strategic planning. Now"—he smiled—"did you come here to talk about golf in North Korea?"
"No. I came because I want to bring about permanent stability in the Middle East."
"Hmm." Renard nodded pensively, as if he had been asked for his thoughts on promoting a new brand of toothpaste. "And what sort of budget did you have in mind?"
"Money would not be a factor. Within reason, of course."
"In my experience, Ms. Farfaletti, "within reason' is exactly where money becomes not only a factor but the factor."
Florence placed her briefcase on Rick's desk and smartly snapped Open the spring-operated clasps. Inside were two bricks of crisp new thousand-dollar bills. She placed them on his desk.
Renard tried not to drool. "You said you were with ..."
"The United States government." "Oh."
"Do you always sound that disappointed when a client places two hundred thousand dollars in cash on your desk?"
"No. no. My inner child is definitely doing somersaults. What sort of 'permanent stability in the Middle East' are we talking about? And may I ask, what branch of our wonderful government do you represent?"
"The State Department."
"So, CIA. Wonderful. I'm a huge fan. Your colleagues were extremely helpful to me over there in North Korea when the mine exploded on the golf course."
"1 didn't say I was with the CIA, Mr. Renard."
"No, you didn't. So I would be working for the State Department. Um-hum."
"You understand the confidential nature of all this." "Ms. Farfaletti. here at Renard Strategic Communications, discretion rules."
"That's very reassuring. Mr. Renard."
"Well"—Renard smiled and picked up the bricks of cash, tossing them playfully into the air—"I've always wanted to give something back to my country.
"It's a pleasure dealing with such a patriot. Mr. Renard." "When your country calls, I mean, you pick up the phone, right?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Florence and the curious person who called himself Uncle Sam had been sequestered in a small safe house in Alexandria, Virginia, for two days, going through personnel files. The house was normally used to debrief, or entertain, defectors. To judge from the acrid reek of old cigarette smoke, the defectors must all have died of lung cancer.
They examined the files on Uncle Sam's laptop computer, which appeared to have the most intimate access to the files of U.S. government intelligence officers and covert operators. Whatever doubts Florence might have had about Uncle Sam, he was certainly wired.
"What if you left the laptop on a bus?"
"I don't ride buses," he sniffed.
"Then what if someone look it from you? Would they be able to access all this?"
Uncle Sam sighed. "Anyone who turned this machine on without pressing the right sequence of keys would find himself in a very unhappy position." "You mean it would explode?"
"Yes, Florence. Now what about this one." he said as another file popped onto the screen. "He was station chief in Karachi. Military background. Might be just the ticket."
Florence scrolled through the file. "No," she said.
"What's wrong with him?"
"I want someone with a grudge."
"Bias, you mean. How many times do 1 have to point out—everyone hates Wasabis."
"You're the one who's biased."
"They're so eminently detestable. You should know. You married one."
Florence wasn't inclined to tell Uncle Sam that she didn't want anyone he recommended. He'd made a fuss over her choice of Rick Renard. "What is this, the Dirty Dozen?" She put her foot down. This was either going to be her team or not. "Let's keep looking."
Uncle Sam groaned. "How many hies have we been through?"
"If you're bored, why don't you go for a walk? Leave this here with me."
"You'd only blow yourself up. Heavens to Betsy, are you looking to make a purchase, or just browsing?"
finally, he went upstairs to lie down, leaving Florence to scroll the personnel files of America's armies of the night. They began to blur. Then she realized that she was hunting according to looks. An hour into this phase of the search, she stopped scrolling.
He was in his army uniform, the black beret tipped jauntily over his forehead. Florence examined the ribbons on his chest and looked again at the face. She could tell right away, without reading any further, that he was a southerner. He looked pleased with himself, as though the night before, he had nailed the homecoming queen on the Astroturf in the back of his Ford pickup, under the stars. Or maybe he was pleased with his decorations. She checked his place of birth, and there it was: Mobile. Alabama. The photograph had been taken twelve years ago. She scrolled in search of a more recent photograph and found it. The grin was gone. She read the file and saw why. No longer the young eager warrior. Yes, this one.
"I've found him," she announced to Uncle Sam as he returned.
He scanned the file. "Good Lord, he's completely unsuitable."
"That's why I want him."
"Young lady. I am not running a dating service here." "I'll try to keep my hands off him. I have to say. why is a sexist pig like yourself interested in women's emancipation?"
"Look at this file." Uncle Sam snorted. "I'm surprised he's even still in government employ. Did it escape your notice that he's the one who called in that cruise missile strike in Dar es Salaam last year—the one that destroyed the residence of the Indonesian ambassador?"
"No, I happened to note that." Florence replied. "And it was a good target."
"Florence, the secretary of state had to personally apologize to the Indonesian prime minister."
"You're starting to sound like my boss. So what if the secretary of state had to apologize to the Indonesian prime minister. The strike destroyed a Qaeda chem-weap plant. They put it put it right next to the ambassador's residence, disguised as a 'children's prosthetic limb factory' Good for him for calling in the strike. And shame on us for making him take the fall for it, just because some grandstanding senator running for president decided to make an issue of it. Sometimes I think the U.S. capitol is a giant Jell-O mold."
Uncle Sam sighed dramatically and scrolled. "What about this? When he was station chief in Matar, he had an affair with the wife of the U.S. ambassador. What does that tell us?"
"That he was horny. That sort of thing goes on all the time."
"Not in my day. Not in my shop."
"It's of less importance that he was doing the Macarena with the ambassador's wife than that he was station chief in Matar, he must have the
place wired seven ways from Sunday. Look at his file. Station chief Amo-Amas. three years. Deputy chief Kaffa, two years. Fluent in Arabic and French. Look at these terrorist renditions. He's the one who got Adnan Bahesh, arguably the worst human being on the planet. He's the one who found out that Saddam Hussein was plotting to assassinate Bush in '93. Look at his chest. Three Bronze Stars, two Purple Hearts. This isn't good enough for you?" Florence closed the lid of the laptop, slid it away from her and crossed her arms over her bosom. "Search over."
"Fine. Fine." Uncle Sam said poutily. "But listen here, young lady, it would be disastrous to this entire operation if you had a personal liaison with this man."
"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."
"He's a southerner. It's all they think about—sex. And stock-car racing."
"I take it your ancestors came over on the Mayflower, or did they arrive earlier, with the Vikings?"
"May I suggest that you save some of this righteous indignation for when you get over there?"
THERE WAS ONE last person to recruit, and he would be the hardest. He arrived at the Alexandria safe house at the appointed time on the dot. he was always prompt.
"Firenze? What is all this? Oil my God, it's foul in here."
George looked around the apartment, which had been furnished by some color-blind gnome who worked in a subdivision of a subdivision of a sub-bureaucracy whose job was to furnish and decorate safe houses for U.S. intelligence agencies. The paintings, if they could be called that, had been bulk-purchased at Wal-Mart and were only one step removed aesthetically from paintings of bulldogs in visors playing poker.
George said. "I see you've been to Sotheby's."
"Do you want something to drink?"
"What are you pouring? Wine in a box? Malt liquor?"
"George, you and I together are going to accomplish something really big. Really, really big."
"Can I think it over? No."
"Don't you want to hear about it?"
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