Allen Steele - Jericho Iteration

“I don’t know anything about any conspiracies,” he replied.

“Then you deny that the purpose of the Sentinel program was to stop civil insurrections in the United States, even if that meant using the satellite against American citizens?”

McLaughlin’s mouth dropped open. “What …? How did you …?” He stiffened again, regathering his wits. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you claim you don’t know that Sentinel was going to be fired at Cascadian armed forces?”

I heard the ballroom door open and close behind me. Someone started striding across the room toward us. McLaughlin’s eyes darted in that direction, but I didn’t look around. I already knew who it was.

“I’m not aware of anything of the sort,” he said, his voice tight. “Furthermore, this all sounds like a … some sort of wild fantasy. Are you sure of your facts, Mr. Rosen?”

“I’m quite sure, Mr. McLaughlin,” I said, “and they’re not just my facts, either. All this comes from government documents that were released to my paper by Ruby Fulcrum.”

“And who’s going to believe a computer, Gerry?” Paul Huygens asked as he walked up behind me.

I wasn’t surprised to see him here; his name had been on the guest list, so it would only figure that he would have trailed his boss when he left the ballroom. I turned around to look at him; he was as smug as usual, his thumbs cocked in the pockets of his white vest, smiling like the cat who had eaten the proverbial canary.

“That’s a good question, Paul,” I replied. “We’ll have to see, once you start getting calls from all the other papers that now have those documents.”

The smile faded from his face. “What other papers?” he asked, his hands dropping to his side. “Who are you talking about?”

I shrugged. “The New York Times, the Washington Post, Newsday, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, the Chicago Tribune, the Boston Globe-Herald, and of course the Post-Dispatch. That’s just for starters … I’m sure the wire services will pick up on the story. Plus the TV networks, Time and Newsweek, Rolling Stone, the New Yorker, and whoever else received copies of those documents today.”

Huygens looked as if he had just glanced up from the sidewalk to see a ten-ton safe falling toward him. McLaughlin seemed to shudder; his face turned bright red, his mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. I cursed myself for not getting Jah into the ball with me; I would have framed the photo he could have taken of their expressions, and every time I began to curse fate for making me a journalist, I would only have to study this picture to remind myself why I wanted this crummy, thankless job.

McLaughlin recovered his voice. He took a step closer to me and thrust a finger in my face. “If they print a word of this,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “then we’ll sue your ass for libel.”

I stared him in the eye. “No, you won’t,” I said calmly, slowly shaking my head, “because it’s not my allegation. It comes straight from documents you signed yourself. I have the copies to prove it-”

“Accidents happen,” Huygens murmured. “If you’re not careful, bad things can happen to people who-”

“You’re on record, Paul,” I interrupted, glancing down at Joker. “Care to explicate a little further?”

Huygens shut up. “Besides,” I went on, “I’m just the first reporter who’s contacted you for your comments … and, if you didn’t get the hint already, there’s now a whole lot of other people who have the same material I have.”

McLaughlin’s eyebrows began to tremble. “The first reporter?” he asked as he glanced again at Huygens, who was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. “What do you mean by that?”

“What it means,” I said, “is that I’ve got a head start on everyone else … but only a head start. It’ll take the other guys a few days to play catch-up, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them soon.”

Huygens inched closer to McLaughlin and whispered something in his ear. I paid him no mind; I was busy checking the notes on my PT.

“Now then,” I continued, “regarding the murders of Kim Po, Beryl Hinckley, and John Tiernan-”

“No comment,” McLaughlin said.

“But Kim and Hinckley were Tiptree scientists directly involved with Project Sentinel. Surely you must have something to say about their untimely-”

“No comment!” he snapped. “Any further statements I have to make about this matter will be relayed through our public relations office.” He stepped away from me, his face nearly as pale as his bow tie. “This interview is over, Mr. Rosen. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you for your time. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

McLaughlin hesitated. If looks could kill, I would have had a hole burned through my head by a laser beam … but he had tried that already and it hadn’t worked.

He turned away from us and began to walk quickly toward the ballroom, his legs so stiff I thought I heard his knee joints cracking. I watched him until the usher opened the ballroom door for him. There was a moment of worn-out applause as the audience clapped for yet another debutante making her entry into high society, then the door closed behind him.

“Turn that thing off,” Huygens said.

I looked back at him. There wasn’t anything he was going to say to me, on or off the record, that would make much difference; Huygens had shut McLaughlin up before he could say anything self-incriminating, so I could hardly expect an eleventh-hour confession from Tiptree’s spin-doctor-in-residence.

“Sure, Paul.” I clicked Joker off and slipped it back into my pocket. “What do you want to know?”

“Who do you think you are, sport?” he said softly. “What did you think you were going to accomplish by this?”

I shrugged. “I’m a reporter,” I replied. “You said so yourself. I just ask questions a lot of other people would like to ask, if they had the time or inclination.”

“And you think this is going to get you anywhere?” Huygens shook his head. “You’re so goddamn naive.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll put it to you this way. You’ve got the court of love and beauty … and I’ve got the court of public opinion. Who do you think is going to win?”

Huygens didn’t reply. He thrust his hands in his pockets and stared back at me with sullen eyes. He knew the score, and so did I.

“See you in the funny pages,” I said, then I turned around and began to walk toward the escalators.

The sidewalks were almost empty, the skyscrapers ablaze with light. Helicopters cruised overhead while cars cruised through the streets. Downtown was remarkably serene for a fine spring evening, but that was to be expected; ERA armored cars were still prowling the dark avenues, and dusk-to-dawn curfew was still in effect.

All things considered, it seemed as if nothing had changed.

I shrugged into my overcoat as I walked out of the Adam’s Mark. The last few nights had been long and hard; maybe I could hang out here, drink a little bubbly, and find an overprivileged deb who wanted to slum with the po’ people, but my heart wasn’t into it. All I really wanted to do was head straight back to Soulard. Grab a couple of cheap beers at Clancy’s. Wander over to Chevy Dick’s garage and pick up the stray dog I had adopted last night. Climb the fire escape to my seedy apartment and try to figure out a good name for the mutt. Go to bed.

Out of impulse, though, I hung a left at the corner of Fourth and Chestnut. It was still early, and I could afford to take the long way home.