There were a couple of titters in the audience from the Europeans. That was to be expected. The Americans were too ignorant and uneducated to get the operatic reference, while the Europeans got it at once. She had spent most of her life trying to live up to the implications of her name, to be as regal and beautiful and as cold as her namesake, the Princess Turandot. She turned briefly and flashed her famously telegenic smile: “My father was a big Puccini fan,” she explained.
“You understand, Ms. Stanley, that we are on Chatham House rules. Off the record, on deep background, however you care to phrase it. In any case, not for attribution.” He took a small sip of water to delay her answer, giving him time to glance down at his watch once more. The news had not gotten any better. Luckily, she was waiting for him just outside, and they would be at the airport in short order.
Principessa smiled her famous network smile again. A cable network smile, but still a network smile, and one that had, along with her pretty face and killer figure, taken her a long way from Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. If she played her cards right, pretty soon she’d move up from the mid-morning slot to the late-afternoon slot and after that, there was no telling what might happen when one of the prized evening gabfests suddenly found itself in need of a host. She had been hearing rumors, and doing her best to spread of few of her own, and in her opinion a couple of the anchors were only in need of a little push—or a gossip item dropped in the right place at the right time—and the way would be open to her. Besides, Jake Sinclair liked her, a lot.
“Yes, I do.” She rose, letting everyone in the audience get a good look at her. Like all the interchangeable blondes on the cable newscasts, she was leggy, bosomy, brash, and the proud possessor of a law degree. One more button on her blouse was unbuttoned than absolutely necessary. “And finally…what do you have against the news media? Wasn’t it also Jefferson who also said that given a choice between a government without newspapers and newspapers without government, he would happily choose the latter?”
Mr. Grant smiled; she had walked right into his trap. “Yes, Ms. Stanley. To which George Washington replied, ‘I consider such vehicles of knowledge’—that’s newspapers to you—‘more happily calculated than any other to preserve the liberty, stimulate the industry, and ameliorate the morals of a free and enlightened people.’ And by ‘industry,’ of course, he meant—”
“I know what he meant by ‘industry,’ Mr. Grant,” she retorted.
His return glance indicated that he very much doubted that. “What Washington meant, Ms. Stanley, was that vigorous political opposition was a good thing, but that a news media, to give it its current favored term, that saps the will of the people, that reduces them to pleading, whining petitioners and diminishes the morals of the public is not one to be admired. The First Amendment does not protect sedition.”
“But it sounds to me like you’re arguing in favor of American exceptionalism. Isn’t that a form of elitism?”
“On the contrary. I’m arguing in favor of results. Which, in my world, are the only things that count.” He shuffled his papers, reassembling in an unmistakable sign that the talk was over. These days, all of the reporters’ questions emanated from a mountain of moral certitude, which crumbled the second it was assailed.
Principessa reddened, sat down, seethed. “This all sounds rather jingoistic to me,” she said.
Mr. Grant looked at her with all the pity in world. “Who cares what it sounds like to you?” he said, and left the stage.
That went well he thought to himself as he stepped into the wings, to the sound of applause. He moved swiftly, glancing down at his secure BlackBerry. A quick glance at the screen caused him to double his speed. He exited by an emergency door.
There was a car waiting, a nondescript black sedan with four tinted windows. He got into the back seat, closed the door and hit: AUTO-START.
Driverless, the car started up and moved forward. He could control the steering from a console on the back of the driver’s seat. He wasn’t going far.
He glanced in the rearview mirror: a door was opening, and he could see a woman’s head peeking out. It was Ms. Stanley, eyeballing the car and talking into her cell phone. It was too bad he couldn’t treat reporters the way he treated enemies of the Republic…
As the car moved, Mr. Grant underwent a remarkable transformation. His teeth fell out of his head; his midsection slid away, a hairpiece came off. And all the while he was wondering whether the raw data he was receiving was as sinister as it seemed, or worse.
The car reached the far end of the parking lot and slid into a reserved, covered space. He ran a brush through his hair, popped a pair of brown contact lenses from his eyes. He had to hurry.
He opened the door and, keeping low, slid into the adjoining Mercedes, its engine purring, as the front passenger door opened.
“Not bad,” came a voice from the driver’s seat. He didn’t turn to look at her, but he didn’t have to. He knew every line of her lovely face. “But that reporter sure was a bitch.”
“You were watching?”
“And listening. Every word, every gesture…”
Jealous. He liked that in a woman. Especially one he hardly knew, but trusted with his life. “You know there’s—”
She turned toward him and, as usual, he fell in love with her all over again. His mouth covered hers.
“Really, Frank, I think you’re slipping,” she said, breaking away. “Why put yourself in—”
He reclined and, for the first time in two hours, stretched. They both knew the answer to that question, which was: there was no answer. “My name’s not Frank.”
“You’re telling me.” She pulled the car out of the lot and into traffic. “How bad is it?”
“Hard to say. Cyber attack, maybe a security breach.”
“Against us?”
Mr. Grant shook his head. “Worse—NYPD. Fort Meade is still monitoring, but the situation is unclear. And you know how tough it is to get any information out of the cops. They’d rather see the city nuked than share anything with us. We need to get to Teterboro A-sap.”
“So I guess Arnaud’s is out of the question.”
He smiled. “Arnaud’s, Galatoire’s Brennan’s, Congo Square, Exchange Alley—the whole nine yards.”
Maryam hit the radio button twice and nodded to Devlin. He took the cigarette lighter out of its holder and pressed it against his thumb. The biometric reader vetted him, and suddenly the navigator screen leaped to life. He punched in his instructions.
“Go.”
The car leaped forward, speeding west out of town and toward Louis Armstrong Airport. There would be a private plane there, fully equipped, on the director’s orders. In no time, he and Maryam would be fully up to speed and, if possible, already fighting back. There were contingency plans for something like this, but plans went out the window as soon as the first shots were fired, and from the looks of this…
No matter. He was doing what he was born to do. He was himself again.
He was Devlin.
CHAPTER FIVE
Los Angeles
Jake Sinclair had a choice: to stay sober or to get drunk?
Not just drunk, but, like Elmer Gantry, eloquently drunk, lovingly drunk. Elmer Gantry was one of his favorite characters in literature—not that he had ever read the novel, but he had seen the movie many times over, and he loved Burt Lancaster’s performance, even if the movie left out most of the novel. He loved it so much that he owned a print of it—not a DVD, but an honest-to-God movie print—and had it shown in the screening room at his house in