Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“What do you propose we do, shoot him? Then they’d have three murders to write about.” Greenwood’s tone was derisive. “Be reasonable, Harold. If Lund doesn’t waver, and I’m told he won’t, the Chronicle will go away eventually. And the others will follow.”

“What makes you think Lund’s solid?”

“I have my sources. They tell me Lund is personally convinced a bird strike caused the crash, and all other issues are peripheral with him. He also knows which way the wind blows. He’s a Republican. I’m a Republican. You’re a Republican. If we don’t chase Cordell Hollander out of the White House next election, we’ll get it back four years later, and Lund will be starting with two powerful allies in his bid for the top spot at the FAA.”

“Wait. Hold on a second. I haven’t committed for Lund.”

“But you will.”

Greenwood’s tone was so matter-of-fact that Marshall was momentarily nonplussed. Had he become such a pawn of Converse that Greenwood could be that certain of his vote on everything? Possibly so, he had to admit, especially in light of the chances he’d taken and the deeds he’d done for the company over the years, and particularly in the past week. Nevertheless, the thought chilled him.

“Six years is a long time from now,” he said.

“Not in politics,” Greenwood reminded him. “People play for a lot bigger stakes far more distant than that.”

“Does Lund believe all this?”

“He knows about playing ball, just like you do.”

Marshall bristled. “No one has the authority to speak for me about something like that,” he snapped. Greenwood’s smug assurance was infuriating. But, he acknowledged to himself with great regret, to defy someone was to recognize that his authority existed.

“No one has spoken for you, Harold,” Greenwood said coldly. “But certain insinuations have been made to Lund on our behalf. If he believes our support extends to you, well, that suits our purpose at the moment. Besides, Lund’s qualified.”

“Goddamn it, I don’t give a shit about who’s going to head the FAA six years from now. If doubts about your engine aren’t put to rest, there might not be a Converse to support Lund, or me, by that time. Your stock’s still sliding, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“It’ll come back. Major investors still have confidence in this company. I look for institutional buyers to see the bargain and snatch us up damn soon.”

“I sold out the day after the accident,” Marshall said. “Everything. Every share.”

“So I’ve been told,” Greenwood replied. “I’m certain you reinvested wisely.”

“You know where most of it went?”

“Yes, I do know. Take care, Harold.”

Marshall replaced the receiver and picked up his copy of the morning Chronicle, rereading the top of Pace’s story, and it angered him all over again. Regardless of what Greenwood wanted, this witch hunter had to be stopped. Marshall’s acute sense of things told him the situation was not nearly as positive as the Converse CEO believed.

And he knew with sudden certainty it was going to get worse.

Greenwood replaced the telephone receiver and reached for the humidor on his desk. He extracted one of the illegal Havanas for which he’d acquired a taste no other cigar could fill. The ersatz American and South American products always were trash and always would be. Damn Castro, anyway. If he’d follow the rest of the old Communist axis, his cigars would flood the market—and be a hell of a lot cheaper.

He drew the tobacco under his nose, an unnecessary habit given the unvarying quality of the Cuban product, but he found the aroma soothing. He turned the butt in his mouth, snipped the tip, held the cigar away, and thumbed his desk lighter, carefully holding the flame off the tobacco. He watched it light evenly, without scorching.

If someone asked him how he lit a cigar, Greenwood would have had to stop and think, but he performed it flawlessly, by rote, appearing to pay rapt attention while his mind was ten miles away on something else entirely. At this moment, his mind was more like 400 miles away on a flamboyant United States senator he was trying to keep under control, and on a series of media reports that bothered him more than he acknowledged.

Greenwood leaned forward into a cloud of aromatic smoke and punched the intercom button on his telephone. “Lucy?”

“Yes, Mr. Greenwood.”

“Is Cullen Ferguson in the building today?”

“I believe he is. Would you like me to get him for you?”

“Yes. Ask him to come up right away. And, oh, once you reach him, you can go on home. I appreciate you coming in this morning to handle the faxes from Washington. Given my illiteracy with technology, I never could have managed it.”

Greenwood leaned back in his chair, absently watching the smoke curl about his hand, and considered what it was he wanted Ferguson to do. He settled on a plan well before the vice-president for public affairs knocked on his door and opened it. Visitors to the inner sanctum always were announced. But executives and junior executives in the company were not required to be passed by secretaries. If they knew they were expected, they had only to knock and walk in. Subordinates did it with superiors, superiors with subordinates. There was more dignity in such a system than in keeping a vice-president cooling his heels.

“Even before you ask, G.T., I’ve been monitoring all the networks and getting the East and West Coast press stories by fax,” Ferguson said. “I’m not happy. That NTSB briefing should have quieted all the doubts, but they’re still seeping into the narrative.”

“I know. I’ve been briefed on the Washington stories,” Greenwood said. “What can we do about it?”

“We’re going to be living with it at least through next week. I called an old colleague of mine at U.S. News and asked him what we should expect next Monday. Basically, it will be more of the same. I don’t anticipate better treatment from Time or Newsweek. Fact is, the NTSB conclusion leaves questions open. The media smell blood. I would have, too, during my reporter days. On this side of the fence, though, it’s a pain in the ass.”

“So what do we do?”

“I got nasty with a couple of reporters after the crash. They pressed me for information I couldn’t provide because of the gag order. What I’d like to do now, if the insurance carrier approves, is take a soft approach, see if I can’t convince them to accept the NTSB finding and wait for the public hearings to get answers to the open questions. I could approach it on the simple tenet that they owe it out of fairness. I don’t know how successful it would be, but I think persuasion, not evasion, is the way to go.”

“I agree. And I think you should do it in person. Book yourself into New York and Washington—Washington first—and lay it on. Damn the expense. You’ve got carte blanche. But we want some mindsets changed, and fast.”

“What about the insurance carrier?”

“It’s my decision, and I’ll take responsibility,” Greenwood said.

Ferguson nodded. “I’m out of here today.

“What do you think she’d like to have for dinner her first night here? I could do the marketing, straighten up the apartment, and get her room ready while you’re working today. And don’t forget to double-check taking Monday off.”

Melissa Pace was arriving the next day, and Kathy had all of Saturday to prepare.

“We can go out tomorrow night,” Pace suggested as he knotted his tie. “It doesn’t need to be anything fancy. With a teenager, the less planning, the better. The only thing I want to take special care to get right is the picnic trip to the Blue Ridge on Monday. Sissy has all the water she needs in San Diego. She comes here to go to the mountains. I already checked with Paul about taking the day off. He said it’s fine. I’ve got so much overtime coming, I think they’re glad to see me ask for any of it in comp time.”