Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“What the Chronicle is printing is unconscionable, Harold,” Greenwood spat back at him. “We can’t tolerate it. We had this mess in hand, under control. The fire was out. Now somebody’s rekindled it, and I want to know why and on what evidence.”

“I can’t answer your question. I’ll talk to her. But I’m not going to prostitute her.”

“Why not? You’ve already done much worse. We’re dealing here with something that could bring this company down. I won’t let that happen, Senator, and I don’t care who I have to sacrifice to prevent it, is that clear?”

“I’ve already done everything I can. And I’ve gone way over the bounds of propriety and law in doing it. If the Ethics Committee ever got hold of this, it would finish my career. I don’t see how I have the means to discredit the Chronicle stories.”

“Do you have the means to find out what they’re based on?”

“No. What do you want me to do? I’ve lied for you. I’ve cheated for you. I’ve used Davis to do things that shouldn’t have been done. My neck is out as far as I can stick it. What more, exactly, is it you think I can do?”

“Surely you can do something more than take the Senate floor and threaten to overturn the First Amendment! Christ, what were you thinking of? We want to appease the media, not wave a bloody rag under their noses.”

“So, fine. Suggest something.”

“Cast some doubt about the motives of the people behind this. I’ll fax you some material you can use.”

“Like what?”

“Sachs did consulting work for MacPhearson-Paige before he went to the NTSB.”

“So?”

“Do I have to paint you a picture? M-P is one of our chief competitors. Maybe you should suggest he’s taking money under the table to discredit us.”

“How, exactly, do you plan to prove that?”

“We don’t have to prove it,.” The exasperation in Greenwood’s voice was growing. “All we have to do is suggest a motive for deceit, and put the kibosh on this thing quick.”

“But that’s Sachs. I don’t know that he’s behind this.”

“Oh, shit. He’s the goddamn chairman of the NTSB.”

“Maybe the impetus for this came from within the go-team,” Marshall suggested.

“Harold, for chrissake, we’re not trying to be accurate here; we’re trying to discredit the new suspicions. Since Sachs worked for one of our competitors, hang it on him. Let the public think the NTSB chairman can influence a go-team. And so what if he can’t? None of the poor unwashed out there knows that. Why don’t you suggest the guy had an ax to grind, a future to consider? Hell, Cordell Hollander isn’t going to be President forever. When he’s out of office, Sachs is going to be looking for a job. Maybe he’s trying to build that future on our dead bodies? At least let’s plant the seed of that idea.”

“You know it’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know it. And I don’t care. I want you to convince the American public it could be so. Go back out on the floor and talk about his association with Mac-Paige. Or call a press conference. Or leak it to the Post or the Times. Hell, I don’t care how you do it; just do it! Make it a conflict-of-interest thing. Hang this sucker around his neck so heavy he won’t be able to raise his head to kiss his wife hello.”

In his office in the suite occupied by the Senate Transportation Committee staff, Chapman Davis was having his own problems. Sylvester Bonaro showed up unbidden, demanding to know if his deal was about to come apart.

“I can’t believe you had the balls to waltz in here,” Davis railed. He whisked Bonaro out of the offices, where there was absolutely no privacy, and into the committee’s empty hearing room. There they sat huddled in a corner, talking in stage whispers.

“That damned reporter is getting too close,” Bonaro said. “You and your boss don’t pay me enough to hang around and take the fall for this. I can disappear back into the Baltimore waterfront in an hour, and nobody will find me. Now, what’s the plan?”

“There isn’t one I know of,” Davis answered honestly. “This just hit us this morning. We didn’t have any warning.” He cupped his hands and wiped them down over his face. The stress was beginning to wear on him. This definitely wasn’t the political career he’d envisioned. “I don’t think it would do us much good to take Pace or his girlfriend out now.”

“Yeah, right,” Bonaro said. “The guy writes about how somebody’s fucked up the Dulles job, and he and his girlfriend turn up dead. What more proof would anybody need?”

“I suppose,” Davis agreed. “I suggest you get yourself off the streets and wait until you hear from me.” He looked at Bonaro sharply. “How’d you get here this morning?”

“What? I drove.”

“The van?”

“Yeah. It’s my wheels.”

“Did you get it fixed?”

“Hell, who’s had time?”

Davis jumped to his feet and glowered down at the bewildered Bonaro. “Jesus, get it the hell off the streets! Ditch it. Burn it. Crush it. I don’t care what the hell you do with it, but get it away from here. I mean it, Sly. There’s always a chance somebody spotted it in Virginia or at the drugstore. Hell, Pace could have seen it in the garage. Somebody could have made the license. Destroy the damned thing—”

Bonaro rose in protest.

“I mean it, man. I’ll pay for a new one. My word. But that van’s got to get gone, now and forever.”

“So what am I supposed to do for wheels in the meantime?”

“Take a fucking taxi!”

“To a hit? That’s a swell idea.”

“There aren’t going to be any more hits. This has already gone too far.” But Davis relented. “Okay, garage it, someplace where you can get to it in an emergency, but someplace nobody will see it. Take cabs or buses or Metro. Buy a new one, I don’t care. Send me the bill. So now you got a new truck and an expense account out of this. See how easy I am if you go along?”

“Yeah,” Bonaro agreed. “You people are fucking nuts, you know?”

Steve Pace scooted into the editorial conference room five minutes after his meeting was to have begun with Avery Schaeffer, Paul Wister, Clayton Helm, and Martin Lanier. There was an undefined disorder to the session, given that no one had called it; it simply came to be. Clay Helm was one of the first on the telephone to Pace after the NTSB story broke. He got the reporter at home during his first cup of coffee. Lanier tried Avery Schaeffer at home, only to find at 7:00 A.M. that the editor was already on his way downtown. He reached him at 7:30. Then Helm and Lanier reached each other. Lanier called Schaeffer to ask for a face-to-face, but Schaeffer wasn’t available. So the D.C. detective lodged the request with Wister. Schaeffer wasn’t available because he was talking to Pace, who had gone to his office to say Clay Helm would like to come in for a chat.

So it was at 2:30 they were all there, each looking to the others to open the discussion. Schaeffer suggested they delay until Pace could join them.

“He’s on the phone with a radio station in Cleveland doing a live interview on the story this morning,” Schaeffer explained. “He’ll be along shortly. Anyone need coffee?”

Everyone accepted, so Schaeffer ordered several carafes, plus cream and sugar, from the executive dining room. Now they waited in curious silence both for Pace and for coffee.

The reporter apologized for being late. “I couldn’t get them off the phone.”

“No problem,” Schaeffer said with a smile. “We’re wondering why we’re here.”