Lionel Shriver - The New Republic

It was Pavlovian: Wallasek mentions Barba, and Edgar’s mind wanders. In fact, Edgar had been musing how when the “SOB” first emerged in the news everyone had thought the name of the group was a laugh. Nowadays even management types like Wallasek here cited the acronym with a straight face. You actually had to remind yourself that in olden times it meant son of a bitch.

“Point is,” Wallasek continued, “any day now we could have another horror show splattered across the front page, and the Record could be caught with its pants down.”

“How’s that?”

Wallasek sucked his cheeks between his molars and chewed. He stood up. He jammed his hands in his pockets and jingled his keys. He glowered piercingly at his toes, as if trying to burn extra holes in his wingtips.

“Barrington Saddler.”

He didn’t ask, “Have you heard of—?” or introduce, “There’s this fellow called—” The editor simply plunked the name in the room like a heavy object he’d been lugging around and was relieved to chuck on the floor. Wallasek himself gazed at a midpoint in the office as if some large physical presence would manifest itself.

Sure, Edgar had caught references to some bombastic-sounding buffoon while he was waiting for Wallasek to get off the phone. But that didn’t altogether explain Edgar’s nagging impression of having heard the name before.

In any event, the name put Edgar off from the start. The “Barrington” bit was overblown and beefy, and anyone who didn’t have the wit to shorten the pretentious appellation down to “Barry” was a pompous ass. The tag evoked adjectives like over bear ing and un bear able, and New Englanders would experience an irksome impulse to place the word “Great” in front of it.

“Barrington Saddler was sent to earth to try my personal patience,” Wallasek had resumed. “Maybe it’s because I’m still trying valiantly to pass God’s test of my character that I haven’t fired the man. That and because Saddler is supposedly one of our star reporters. I’ll spare you the nitty-gritty unless someday you appear in need of a cautionary tale, but Barrington was posted to Russia, where Barrington was bad. I could’ve axed him then, but his boosters would’ve put up a stink, and I do have this indefensible fondness for the lout.

“So I decided to exile him instead. I spread out a map of Europe and located the most far-flung, poorest, dullest corner of the Continent. This worthless jut of Portugal hadn’t rated passing mention in the American press for two hundred years. I figured, here was the perfect place for Saddler to contemplate the error of his ways. Here was the one place he’d never draw a crowd—another protective, gossipy clique that goads him into mischief. Because no one went there . No tourists, no expats, much less any of his journo buddies on assignment, because there was jack to cover, just a bunch of Iberian crackers babbling a language he’d be too lazy to learn and good Catholic girls who’d keep their bodices buttoned. I’d keep him on salary until he’d learned his lesson, and he’d come back from this sandbox having got nothing in the paper all year, suitably chastened and ready to play by the rules as one more humble steno in History’s secretarial pool.

“And where is this Podunk across the pond?” Wallasek charged ferociously.

“Barba,” Edgar guessed.

“BARBA! Which within months of Saddler’s arrival sprouts the single most lethal terrorist organization of the twentieth century. Ever, I reckon. And there’s Saddler, happy as a pig in shit, in the very center of the story, firing off front-page leads on the ultimatums of the SOB. A predictable cadre descends on the dump—the Times , the Post , and the Guardian now have permanent staffers in the provincial capital, Cinzeiro. Even the London Independent , which is terminally broke, keeps a string. Presto, Saddler’s leading a hack pack again. I’d say the man is charmed, except that lately I’ve wondered if this cat is finally on life number ten.”

“Saddler’s in trouble?” Once again, Edgar felt a weird familiarity with this preposterous character, a shared exasperation.

“Maybe he cozied up to those murderous douchebags too close, I don’t know. He’s reckless; he thinks danger is funny. Anyway, three months ago he disappeared. Vanished, poof, gone. Practically left his coffee cooling and his Camel burning. Which is where you come in.”

“I was a lawyer, not a PI.”

“I don’t expect you to look for him. That’s the cops’ job, which they’ve already done, badly if you ask me. This Cinzeiro police chief Lieutenant Car-ho-ho, or whoever, claims to have left no stone unturned. He’s one of those parochial rubes crazed with petty power who’s very possessive about his patch. I’ve talked to him. Try to suggest maybe he hasn’t tried all the angles, and he gets snippy and defensive and patriotic on you. You’ll see—Barbans are all like that. Touchy. And all roads lead to their cloverleaf politics. Mention the flipping weather—which I gather stinks—and you’ve insulted their precious national pride. Anyway, the guy came up with diddly. No leads. Left me to believe Saddler must have been abducted by aliens or something.”

“So what’s the gig?” Edgar pressed, forcing his leg to stop jittering.

Wallasek clapped his hands. “I need a correspondent in Barba. I’ve given up waiting for Saddler to send flowers. So I’m offering you a string. There is a retainer, which technically makes you a ‘super-stringer,’ but don’t let the heroic title go to your head; our monthly gratuity will keep your tape recorder in fresh batteries, and that’s about it. Flat-rate four hundred bucks an article, plus expenses, but only for the pieces we print. We’ll pay your initial freight. No benefits. You can set yourself up in Barrington’s digs; I gather he even left his car.

“But this arrangement would be provisional,” Wallasek barreled on before Edgar had a chance to say yes or no. “Barrington’s been on board this paper from its inception. He’s an institution, if you like. If he shows up with an explanation I can even pretend to swallow, the posting’s his again. He knows this story, been on it from the ground up. So Saddler shows up next week, your string is for one week.”

“The retainer, how much …?”

“You’re embarrassing me,” Wallasek cut him off. “Three-fifty a month, which is as appalling as it is nonnegotiable. Furthermore, you gotta be prepared for plenty of computer solitaire. It’s possible the SOB has called it quits, or maybe they’ve clawed each other’s eyes out; these hot-blooded paramilitary outfits often self-destruct. In that case, the story’s dead, and you’re on your own. I can’t guarantee another posting, either. This is a one-time offer. On the other hand, the story heats up, Saddler’s still among the disappeared? You could spin this into a big break. Think you could handle that?” In brandishing disclaimers, the editor clearly read Edgar as so hard-up that he couldn’t afford to be choosy. Wallasek was right.

This was indeed a big break, so Edgar’s hesitation was absurd. The offer far exceeded his expectations, the very expectations that Wallasek had mocked for being set so high. Edgar had figured that at best he’d get the go-ahead to submit a feature on spec, or a promise to keep his CV “on file”—that is, incinerated only after he walked out and not before his eyes. This “super-string” paid peanuts, but had a spicy ring to it, and was a foot in the door. Maybe sometime soon 245 civilians would make him a lucky man: DEATH TOLL IN HUNDREDS AS SOB CLAIMS SABOTAGE OF UNITED FLIGHT 169, by Edgar Kellogg, Barba Correspondent.