Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

When Sydney and Hunz arrived at Los Angeles International Airport, Josh and Cheryl and Stacy were waiting for them:

Having followed Hunz’s instructions, Josh had steered the Volvo down a side road to hangars that serviced private corporate jets. The guard at the parking lot security booth told Josh he was expecting them. After a cursory check of the Volvo, he directed them to the appropriate hangar and waved them through.

“You should have seen their faces.” Hunz was still laughing as he climbed out of the back of the limo. “Priceless!”

Sydney emerged right behind him. What followed was a breathless duet reenacting the last twenty minutes.

“They followed us all the way to the Excelsior Hotel,” she said.

“Some of them were there waiting for us,” Hunz said.

“After all, it’s no secret Wonder Wheel uses the Excelsior Hotel.”

“She was marvelous,” Hunz said of Sydney. “Inspired.”

“It seemed the natural thing to do,” Sydney said.

Josh grinned widely. “What? What did you do?”

“Well, when we got to the hotel,” Sydney said, “we drove into the drop-off area in front of the lobby doors. Hunz opened the moonroof on the limo.”

“And Sydney stood up so everyone could see her. Naturally, they thought she was Cheryl. They piled out of their vehicles and surrounded the limo, shouting questions, thrusting microphones at her, cameras rolling, strobes flashing.”

Standing next to Josh and holding Stacy, Cheryl listened intently and smiled as the story unfolded.

“It was fun,” Sydney said, glad to see Cheryl smiling again. “I felt like a celebrity wearing those dark glasses.”

“Sydney waved to them, one of those regal, Princess Diana waves,” Hunz said. “Strobe lights were flashing everywhere. Then she removed her glasses and there were fewer flashes. With a flourish, she pulled off the wig, and the flashes stopped altogether.”

“They were stunned,” Sydney said.

“But then,” Hunz cried, “the piece de resistance. A stroke of genius!”

“I pulled the pillow from beneath my blouse… ”

“…and she tossed it to them…”

“…like a bridal bouquet.”

“Then we drove off, leaving them standing there. Stunned. Stunned! Hands down, best time I’ve had in America,” Hunz cried.

“Ican’t believe you arranged all of this,” Sydney said, “and in such a short time.”

The Dassault Falcon cruised at thirty-six-thousand feet. A Plexiglas panel doorway separated the section of the plane in which Sydney sat from the boardroom where Cheryl had put Stacy down. The little girl was sleeping on a small sofa, her head beneath a large fern. Cheryl sat on the floor next to her, stroking her bangs. Josh reclined in a conference chair nearby, his feet propped up on the table. His eyes were closed, but it was doubtful he was sleeping.

Hunz closed the Plexiglas door behind him and joined Sydney. Four wide soft leather chairs were arranged in pairs, facing each other. Hunz sat next to Sydney, who was watching Cheryl love her daughter.

“And it was nice of you to invite Josh and me along, though I still don’t understand why you did.” Sydney paused for an explanation. When Hunz didn’t offer one, she said, “I’ve never flown on a private jet before. I’ve never even flown first class, only cattle car coach.”

Hunz slumped back in his chair. He let out a sigh of accomplishment.

“At the studio, you called Sol and arranged things then, didn’t you?” Sydney said. “The limo, the jet, all of it.”

She just couldn’t let it go. The details of the trip. Hunz’s reasoning. They were little niggling worms under her skin.

Hunz closed his eyes. “Being an international celebrity has its perks.”

“You did it for Stacy, didn’t you? You and she have formed quite an attachment.”

Hunz smiled, his eyes still closed.

“What did you promise him?” Sydney asked.

“Who?”

“Sol. He’s not the kind of guy who gives something unless he gets something in return. You promised him something. What?”

Hunz sighed again, obviously a bit agitated at the question. “Does it matter?”

“It depends on what you promised him.”

Hunz turned his head without lifting it to look at her. “An exclusive,” he said. “I offered Sol an exclusive.”

It took a moment for what he said to register. When it did, Sydney bolted upright. She looked at Cheryl, then back at Hunz.

“You scum!” she shouted. “All this time I thought you were rescuing Cheryl from those game show piranha, and you were just saving her for yourself! You’re no better than they are! I take that back. You’re worse!”

“Scum,” Hunz said calmly. “I don’t know that word.”

“Dirtbag. Sleaze. Wretch.”

“Ah, wretch. Now that’s a word I know.”

He didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned by Sydney’s outrage.

Sydney was beside herself. “How could you do such a thing? How could you be so low? Here I thought you were trying to help Cheryl, while all the time you’re setting her up to exploit her!”

“Everything has a price,” Hunz said. “Cheryl wanted to get back to Chicago to deliver her baby. The price of the airfare was an exclusive interview with a death watch victim at the moment of death—in perfect health one minute, dead the next. Sol liked the idea. Said it would make a splash.”

“I might expect this kind of despicable behavior from Sol, but you? I thought you were better than that.”

Hunz’s face reddened. “Maybe you’ve forgotten who we are. We’re reporters, not a rescue aid society. Reporters report—automobile crashes, burning buildings, natural disasters, murders. Every day people die and we’re there live, broadcasting it to our viewing audience. It’s the nature of our business. And if you don’t know that by now, you’re in the wrong business. If you want to save people, join the Red Cross!”

Sydney sat facing him on the edge of her seat, her hands balled in fists.

“But this is Cheryl!”

Hunz was unmoved. “First rule of journalism: Never compromise your objectivity.”

Sydney glared at him. “Why now? Why Cheryl? We could have done this story with Lyle Vandeveer.”

“Things were different back then.”

The way he said it, back then sounded like it was several decades ago instead of just last night.

“Back then,” Sydney said, “you thought interviewing Mr. Vandeveer was a waste of time.”

“Like I said, things change.”

Sydney studied him. What had changed? It had to be more than just a matter of passing time. Was it the fact that Cheryl was now a game show celebrity? Or was it something else? What else had changed since last night?

“You heard from the FBI,” she said.

Hunz looked away. He said nothing. But he heard her, because his jaw muscles tensed, just like it had in the vomitory when he returned after making a phone call.

After a few moments, he said, “A few hours ago, General Baranov surrendered to FBI agents outside his villa on Barbados.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it? Has he talked? Has he told the FBI where to find Yuri Kiselev?”

Hunz nodded. “Baranov talked.”

“And?”

“He’s not behind Death Watch.”

Sydney was crestfallen. “Oh, Hunz! Is that what Baranov said? He’d deny it, of course. Is the FBI certain?”

“Baranov told them where they could find Yuri Kiselev. He’s buried in a basement just outside of Minsk. He’s been dead for two months. Apparently, he made the mistake of falling in love with Baranov’s mistress.”

“And the nanotechnology?”