The Newsmakers Page 5

  Greg’s voice is so calm, so reasonable, and there’s no sugarcoating. He’s speaking the simple truth. And presenting a way forward. Erica lets out a deep exhale and feels herself relax. She has an ally. Someone she can trust.

  Greg smiles at her. She looks at his hands, the dusting of hair, the prominent veins, the long, supple fingers—and has a sudden urge to be held by those hands, cared for, caressed.

  Alarmed by her desire, Erica stands up, paces a moment, and then stops. “You’re right, of course. Thanks for talking me down. Any promising stories on the horizon?”

  “Kay Barrish’s plans are the hot topic these days.” The former movie star and California governor is considering a run for the presidency, a race she would enter as the clear favorite.

  “She’s said she’ll announce her decision on a White House run in the next couple of weeks. Landing an interview with her would be a big coup.”

  Erica nods. “I’ll work on that.”

  “It won’t be easy. Everyone in the business is trying to snag her.” Greg smiles at her. “Of course you’re not everyone.”

  “I appreciate your support and sound advice.” Erica heads toward the door.

  “Erica?”

  She turns.

  “Any chance we could continue our discussion over dinner?”

  Greg looks so hopeful, both strong and vulnerable. Erica swore to herself that romance was off the table for her first year. But this isn’t romance. It’s just two colleagues having a casual dinner. Right?

  He holds up his palms in surrender. “We’ll go Dutch,” he says with a smile.

  “Out of the question,” Erica says. And then she returns his smile. “I’m paying.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ERICA STEPS INTO THE ELEVATOR and presses 3. Sure, she’ll write Claire a memo raising the possibility that the ferry crash was an act of cyberterrorism. When she’s good and ready.

  The doors open on the third floor, and Erica walks down the hall toward GNN’s IT department. It’s a large, open space split into cubicles. There’s a single private office at the far end of the room with its door open. It must be Mark Benton’s. Erica walks past the cubicles—some of the employees look like they were bused in from a Star Wars convention: geeky, goofy, gender-indeterminate, sporting a rainbow of hair colors. Others are wearing bland clothes and don’t have a hair out of place. Both camps are focused on their computer screens with the maniacal intensity of obsessive-compulsives. The room is eerily silent except for the click of fingers on keyboards, a disembodied, malevolent sound.

  Erica reaches the office. Inside, a man of about thirty is sitting in front of a huge computer screen with several other large screens nearby. The main screen is filled with a diagram of mathematical symbols—at least Erica thinks that’s what they are. Each time he hits the keyboard, the configuration of the diagram changes.

  “Mark Benton?”

  “Not now!” he barks, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  “When?”

  “Later.”

  “That’s not very specific.”

  “Can’t you see I’m working?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly on the beach in Cabo.”

  He turns and looks at her, his mouth twisted in annoyance.

  “Erica Sparks. Sorry to interrupt your work. Can you give me a good time to come back?”

  Mark looks from the screen to Erica and back. He sighs. “Fine. Go ahead. What’s up?”

  “I have a few questions.”

  “About?”

  “The computer systems on the Staten Island ferry.”

  “I’m not paid to help reporters conduct research.” He has a roundish face that still seems to hold traces of baby fat, pale skin, and curly brown hair. He’s wearing black-rimmed glasses that are too big for his face and give him a buglike look, a wrinkled work shirt, and baggy black cords. In spite of his best efforts, he’s attractive in a nerdy sort of way.

  “Can you make an exception?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Could the Staten Island ferry crash have been an act of cyberterrorism?”

  That grabs him—his expression goes from aggrieved to engaged. “That was my first thought.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No, I just said it to prove what a genius I am.” He blows air out through his mouth, his lips whinnying like a horse, then reaches up and scratches his scalp. “I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk. We had a software glitch yesterday and I pulled an all-nighter. It’s almost resolved but not quite.”

  “Gotcha. This is a bad time. But you think cyberterrorism is a possibility?”

  “Absolutely. It would be a tough system to hack into, but once you were in, you could control that ferry from the Kremlin.”

  “Can you back up a little? How would that work?”

  Mark’s eyes light up with techy enthusiasm. “Transportation systems—starting with airlines, of course—are high security risks. They’re protected by a lot of firewalls—both software programs and hardware that identify and block hackers. So getting in would take time and skill. But it’s certainly doable. Look at North Korea and Sony. ISIL shut down the French television network TV5 Monde and took over its website and social media. North Korea got into Sony by stealing the credentials and assuming the identity of a Sony IT systems manager. Once they were in, they could inflict damage at any time. It’s really the equivalent of getting behind enemy lines. North Korea’s initial salvos were phishing—e-mails that put malicious code into a computer system if the recipient unknowingly clicks on a link. The phishing started two months before they took total control of Sony’s systems. With the ferry, I would guess that the hackers had been in the system for a while, waiting for the optimal time to freeze up the navigational controls.”

  “And the Kate Middleton lunch was the perfect moment to gain maximum media coverage.”

  “Exactly. You know GNN has a whole cybersecurity department.”

  “I had no idea.” How come no one has mentioned this to her?

  “Oh yeah. It’s located on the sixth floor. It’s run by a guy named Dave Mullen. For obvious reasons, it’s a locked ward.”

  “But you’re in IT here.”

  “I take care of our internal functions. I’m basically a glorified repairman. Dave Mullen protects us from the big bad world. He used to work for the Pentagon and then for a big defense contractor. Won’t give me the time of day.”

  “How do I contact Mullen?”

  “Through your executive producer. But I doubt he’ll talk to you. Like I said, they lie low. Nylan has a paranoid streak, but you know what they say: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t after you. There’s North Korea, ISIL, the Kremlin, rogue hackers. Imagine the panic a terrorist group could create if it simultaneously shut down all four cable news networks, the East Coast power grid, and the national air traffic control system.”

  “Terrifying thought.”

  “We’re living in a brave new world, Erica. You know what I call anyone who claims to know where it will all lead?”

  “What?”

  “A fool.”

  CHAPTER 10

  TO WEAR OR NOT TO wear, that is the question. Erica is at home, standing in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the beautiful blue dress that she was going to wear on The View. Nancy Huffman returned it to her, perfectly altered. She’s meeting Greg in twenty minutes at a restaurant two blocks away. It’s Italian, unpretentious and well lit. She didn’t want some romantic place filled with candlelight and cozy corners. She’s nervous e
nough as it is.

  Yes, the dress is a dream, but does it send the wrong message? Would she be better off going simple—jeans and a white oxford, maybe, with the collar up? As soon as she got home, she washed the spray paint off her face, so maybe she can get away with the dress. It does make her feel . . . desirable. But is she comfortable with that?

  She picks up her phone, takes a selfie, and texts it to Moira: IS THIS DRESS TOO MUCH FOR A BUSINESS DINNER?

  Within seconds she gets an answer: WITH A MAN?

  YES.

  HOW ATTRACTIVE IS HE, ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 10?

  I DON’T WANT TO GO ON RECORD.

  WHICH MEANS HE’S AT LEAST AN EIGHT.

  MORE MONEY.

  BUSTED! BEAUTY IS POWER. WEAR IT!

  As she walks down Fifty-Seventh Street past Carnegie Hall, Erica is glad she took Moira’s advice. The admiring looks she’s getting lift her spirits and her confidence. It was a rough day but a good day, a learning day. Before she left the office, she wrote an e-mail to Claire Wilcox, copying Greg and Nylan:

  Hi, Claire—I think it’s worth exploring cyberterrorism as the cause of the ferry crash. Internal IT head Mark Benton thinks it’s a possibility. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help with this story (or any other). Best—Erica

  The big leagues are cutthroat. That’s not her favorite way to roll, but if that’s what it takes, she’s in—as long as it’s not at the expense of her integrity. Let Claire have the ferry crash story. It’s a big, chaotic world out there and another important story will come along. And if it doesn’t come along, she’ll go out and find it.

  She enters the restaurant and is greeted warmly by the maître d’. Greg is at the small bar and he crosses to her, drink in hand.

  “Would it be unprofessional of me to tell you how great you look?”

  “Probably—but why don’t you say it again so I can be sure.”

  The maître d’ leads them to a table and after they’re seated asks, “May I get the lady something to drink?”

  “I’m fine with water for now, thank you.”

  “I just read your e-mail to Claire,” Greg says as they open their menus.

  “And?”

  “I thought it was pitch perfect: helpful and respectful but not obsequious. Have you heard back?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Claire’s no fool. I predict she’ll take your advice.”

  “Mark Benton tells me GNN has a cybersecurity department.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Greg says with a sardonic half smile. “It’s very secretive. Nylan is obsessed with all things secretive. And cyber. He believes in something he calls cyberpower, and he thinks it’s going to define the twenty-first century. The man has ambitions that go way beyond GNN.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, I’m one of several dozen executive producers at the network, so I’m hardly in his inner circle, but offhand I’d say he’s after world domination. Seriously, I think he craves power on a global scale. He’s thirty-six, he’s made his billions on Universe, he’s gotten GNN up and running. What’s next? I don’t think he wants to get into politics per se, but I think he wants to be a major player behind the scenes.”

  “And you think he’s perverse?”

  “Under that boyish façade lies a very strange man. I don’t pretend to understand him. But I do know I don’t trust him. Nylan’s main management tool is fear.”

  Erica gets a text and takes out her phone. “I know this is rude, but reporters get a pass. . . . It’s from Claire: THANK YOU FOR THE VALUABLE LEAD, TEAMMATE. Fair enough, although I could have done without the ‘teammate.’ What a cliché.”

  “With someone like Claire, you’ve got to beat them at their own game.”

  “Fool me twice . . .”

  “Exactly.”

  The waiter comes over and takes their order. Erica goes for a simple angel hair Bolognese, Greg for mushroom ravioli. She also orders an Italian lemon soda.

  “So . . . I’ve been thinking about your next move,” Greg says.

  “And . . .?”

  “In some ways the ferry incident is a mixed blessing. It launched you like a rocket, which is good. Nylan and everyone else at GNN—and all the other networks—know who you are, and that you’re good at what you do. But it does raise the question of how do you top it.”

  “I don’t want to get desperate and search for something sensational. I’m a workhorse, Greg, I’m in this for the long haul. I’d like to do some substantive stories even if they don’t blaze across the screen.”

  “Good to hear. I’ve seen a lot of smart young reporters so anxious for a hot story that they made stupid mistakes.”

  “Like?”

  “Not doing your homework is number one. You have to understand what you’re covering. Showing up unprepared for an interview is a close—and closely related—second. Being so aggressive that it backfires is another—if you push too hard, people’s natural instinct is to recoil. It’s really Journalism 101.”

  “Still, it’s good to be reminded.”

  The restaurant is filling up; everyone looks bright and attractive, leaning toward each other, saying fascinating things. Erica finds the chatter and hum enlivening, inspiring; who cares about food—this city nourishes her. And being here with Greg—savvy Greg—makes her feel a part of it all, a nascent New Yorker.

  “If I quoted Shakespeare, would you think I was a pompous jerk?” Greg asks.

  “Totally.”

  “I just had to make sure. Hamlet tells the actors that ‘in the tempest and whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperament that will give it smoothness.’ ”

  “Didn’t you do a little editing?”

  “I quit. You’re too good.”

  They laugh. “I’m sorry, that was obnoxious of me,” Erica says. “It’s just that my mentor at Yale loved that quote too . . . give it smoothness . . .” The words hang in the air between them.

  Their food arrives. Suddenly Erica is famished, and she digs in with gusto.

  “How’s the angel hair?” Greg asks.

  “Heavenly. Listen, Greg, you know my history because you hired me. I’d like to know more of your story.”

  “I don’t want to turn this into a dull dinner.”

  “How about I be the judge of that?”

  “You have only yourself to blame. Grew up in a small town in western PA. Father mailman. Wants son to follow in footsteps. Son says no way and joins army day he graduates high school. Learns photography. Leaves army. Works as a freelance photographer. In midthirties gets tired of hustling assignments and having roommates. Gets into news business. Works hard. Gets promoted. Makes good money. Is having dinner with recently hired, incredibly attractive reporter.”

  “Who thinks he uses irony as a defense.”

  “Which only makes her more attractive.”

  “Greg, I’m an investigative reporter. I know that you worked as a war photographer during the first Gulf War and then in other hot spots around the world. I’d like to hear about that.”

  Greg looks down at the table and something sets in his face, his mouth tightens. “You want to know what that was like? You want to know what it felt like to witness the fog of war, the wanton killing of civilians, the rapes, the piles of rubble where houses once stood and families once lived and where, from under the twisted wreckage, you hear the dying cry for help with their last breaths, where you see a six-year-old boy with his leg just blown off, where you see a mother nursing her infant until a
piece of shrapnel decapitates the baby and you still hear her wail when you wake up in a sweat at three a.m.? Is that what you want to know?” Still not looking at Erica, Greg sits back in his chair and exhales. “I’m sorry. That was unfair and unkind.”

  Erica waits a moment and then says, “And honest.”

  He looks at her, and under the anger she sees loss and bewilderment. “I’ll always be a prisoner of war.”

  Just as Erica will always be a prisoner of her childhood. She feels a connection to Greg, something that transcends physical attraction and professional rapport. While she doesn’t equate her traumatic childhood with the horror of war, both she and Greg have seen humanity at its darkest, and have been left scarred.

  For a long moment there is really nothing to say. They both eat in silence. And then Erica makes a decision to change the subject.

  “So—I’m trying to figure out the best way to approach Kay Barrish. But please keep that under your hat—and don’t let Claire Wilcox anywhere near your head!”

  Greg taps his scalp. “Claire-free zone.”

  As they eat, they exchange safe banter about the city, politics, movies. They both decline dessert but do order decaf espressos. After the waiter brings the coffees, Greg says, “Now it’s my turn to raise a tough issue.”

  “I’m here.”

  He puts down his cup and looks her in the eye. “You make no secret of your alcoholism.”

  “My firing from WBZ in Boston is public record.”

  “Did you feel it was justified?”

  “I would have fired me.”

  “And you’ve come back.”

  “That’s the great silver lining of addiction: if you can beat it—or even wrestle it to a draw—it makes you stronger, more empathetic and open-minded.”

  “There might be another silver lining. Like some terrific television.”