Линкольн Чайлд - City of Endless Night

“The SecureSQL takeover?” Alves-Vettoretto asked.

Ozmian nodded, massaging the graying hair at his temples. “Just had to make sure the poison pill was in place.”

She nodded. Ozmian enjoyed hostile takeovers almost as much as he enjoyed firing his own employees.

Now Ozmian came out from behind the desk and took a seat in one of the other chrome-and-leather chairs. His tall, thin frame seemed strung tight as a bowstring, and she could guess why.

Ozmian gestured at a tabloid that sat on the table between them: a copy of the Christmas edition of the Post . “I assume you saw this,” he said.

“I did.”

The entrepreneur picked it up, face contorting into a grimace as if he were handling dogshit, and turned to page three. “‘Grace Ozmian,’” he quoted, his voice full of barely controlled rage. “‘Twenty-three-year-old party girl with no greater aspiration in life than to spend Daddy’s cash, indulge in illegal drug use, and lead a parasitic lifestyle when she’s not in court getting slapped on the wrist for the hit-and-run killing of an eight-year-old boy while driving drunk.’” With a sudden violent gesture, he tore the tabloid in two, then into four, and then threw it dismissively on the floor. “That Harriman just won’t let it rest. I gave him a chance to shut up and move on. But the shit-eating bastard keeps rubbing my face in it, tarnishing my daughter’s good name. Well, his chance has come and gone.”

“Very good.”

“You know what I’m saying, right? The time has come to swat him — swat him flat as a mosquito. I want this to be the last filth the scumbag will ever write about my daughter.”

“Understood.”

Ozmian eyed his deputy. “Do you? I’m not just talking about putting a scare into him. I want him neutralized.”

“I will make sure of that.”

A twitch of the lips that might have been a smile passed quickly across Ozmian’s narrow face. “I presume that, since we last talked about this issue, you’ve been considering an appropriate response.”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“I have something rather exquisite. Not only will it accomplish the desired task, but it will do so with an irony I think you’ll appreciate.”

“I knew I could count on you, Isabel. Tell me about it.”

Alves-Vettoretto began to explain, Ozmian leaned back in his chair, listening to her cool, precise voice lay out the most delicious plan. As she continued, the smile returned to his face; only this time it was genuine, and it lingered for a long time.

Bryce Harriman began to ascend the steps to the main entrance of the New York Post building, then stopped. He’d climbed these steps a thousand times over the last few years. This morning, however, was different. This morning, Boxing Day, he’d been summoned to the office of his editor, Paul Petowski, for an unscheduled meeting.

Such a thing was very unusual. Petowski didn’t like meetings — he preferred to stand in the middle of the newsroom and yell out his commands, rapid-fire, scattering assignments and follow-ups and research jobs like confetti over the surrounding staff. In Harriman’s experience, people were summoned to Petowski’s office for one of only two reasons: to get either chewed out — or fired.

He climbed the final steps and went through the revolving door into the lobby. Not for the first time since the day before, he felt plagued with self-doubt about his article — and the theory behind it. Oh, naturally, it had been vetted and okayed before publication, as had its follow-up, but he’d heard through the grapevine that it had caused quite a reaction. But what kind of reaction? Had it backfired? Was there blowback? He stepped into the elevator, swallowing painfully, and pressed the button for the ninth floor.

When he stepped out into the newsroom, the place seemed unusually quiet. To Harriman, the quiet had an ominous undertone: a watching, listening quality, as if the very walls were waiting for something bad to happen. Christ, was it really possible he had screwed up big time? His theory had seemed so sound — but he’d been wrong before. If he got booted from the Post , he’d have to leave town if he was going to find another job in the newspaper business. And with papers everywhere losing circulation and cutting costs, it would be a bitch to land another position, even with his reputation. He’d be lucky to get a job covering the dog races in Dubuque.

Petowski’s office was in the back of the huge room. The door was closed, the shade pulled down over the window — another bad sign. As he threaded his way between the desks, passing people who were making a show of being busy, he could nevertheless feel every eye swiveling toward him. He glanced at his watch: ten o’clock. It was time.

He approached the door, knocked diffidently.

“Yeah?” came Petowski’s gruff voice.

“It’s Bryce,” Harriman said, working hard to keep his voice from squeaking.

“Come in.”

Harriman turned the knob, pushed the door open. He took a step in, then stopped. It took him a moment to process just what he was looking at. The small office was crowded with people: not just Petowski, but Petowski’s boss, the deputy managing editor; her boss, the executive editor; even Willis Beaverton, the crusty old publisher himself. Seeing Harriman, they all broke out into applause.

As if in a dream, he heard the ovation; he felt his hand being pumped; felt hands slapping his back. “Brilliant piece of work, son!” Beaverton, the publisher, told him in a blast of cigar breath. “Absolutely brilliant!”

“You doubled our newsstand circulation, single-handedly,” said Petowski, his usual scowl replaced by an avaricious smile. “That was the biggest Christmas issue we’ve had in almost twenty years.”

Despite the early hour, somebody broke out a bottle of champagne. There were toasts; there were plaudits and laudations; Beaverton made a short speech. And then they all filed out again, each congratulating Harriman in turn as they went past. In a minute, the office was empty save for him and Petowski.

“Bryce, you’ve stumbled on something big,” Petowski said, moving back behind his desk and pouring the last of the champagne into a plastic cup. “Reporters search their entire lives for a story like this.” He drained the cup, let it drop into the wastebasket. “You stay on this Decapitator story, hear me? Stay on it hard.”

“I intend to.”

“I have a suggestion, though.”

“Yes?” Harriman asked, suddenly cautious.

“This one percenter versus ninety-nine percenter angle. That really touched a nerve. Play it up. Focus on those one percenter predatory bastards and what they’re doing to this city. Guys like Ozmian in their glass towers lording it above the rest. Is this city going to become a playground for the uber-rich while the rest barely scrape together a living in the darkness below? You get what I mean?”

“I sure do.”

“And this phrase you used in the last piece, City of Endless Night . That was good. Damn good. Turn it into a kind of mantra, work it into every piece.”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, and by the way: as of now, I’m giving you a hundred-dollar-a-week raise.” He leaned over the desk and — with a final slap to the back — ushered Harriman out of his office.

Harriman stepped through the door and into the big newsroom. His shoulders stung from Petowski’s hearty blow. As he glanced slowly around at the sea of faces staring back at him — and, in particular, took in the sour expressions of his young rivals — he began to sense, with a kind of golden inner glow, the upwelling of a feeling quite unlike any he’d ever experienced before: intense, total, and consummate vindication.