THE BESLAN TRIGGER
Millie buzzed.
"Charlie, if you're free," Millie began, falling into the universal get-out-of-jail free-card opening spiel, to afford Charlie the final word as to whether to permit the interruption, "there's a gentleman here to see you. Mister Solomon Hancock."
Charlie swung his feet down from the desk and sat up straight.
Hancock? Hadn't they just had the kiss-off meeting in which he'd told Hancock no-go on the story he'd pitched about NSA wire-tapping? That Hancock was a compromised source, not credible enough for media purposes?
"Charlie?"
That was Millie prompting again, still feeling out whether he would see this unscheduled visitor.
Charlie squared his jaw. "Send him in."
He was willing to revisit the subject, learn whatever hadn't been said earlier. It might be a whale of a story—if they could find a way around Hancock as the messenger, that is. Perhaps Hancock had come to identify another potential whistle-blower to the Global Clarity caper, making the story feasible now.
In a rumpled seersucker suit and cradling a thick leather satchel, Solomon Hancock peered around the dark walnut door.
"Charlie?"
"Right here." Charlie strode over, gesturing to a chair at the conference table. "Let's sit, shall we? So, you've located another source for us who's willing to go on the record?"
"No. I haven't." Hancock shook his head.
"But—" Deflated, Charlie tried to regroup. "But I think we covered all this ground earlier. If you're the face of the story, you'll contaminate it. The downgrade to your clearance—your little problems with the law—all those things dilute the power of the story."
"I want to talk to your guy—the guy you had checking up on me. I can convince him. I know I can."
"Solomon. Come on. I told you before, I respect what you're trying to do. Nothing's harder than doing something for which you know you're gonna take shit. Trust me, journalists know this probably better than anyone else. But if you are attached to this story, it's tainted. Worse, it begins to smack of you taking a cheap shot against the agency for downgrading your security clearance."
He sighed and checked his wristwatch. "Look, I'm kind of a busy guy and I thought I made it clear the other day. I told you we would continue to pursue the story as best we can—"
"Without me," Hancock finished with a bitter inflection. "That's not good enough, Charlie. Just let me talk to your guy. Let me add some extenuating information."
Wearily, Charlie punched at the intercom. He couldn't help feeling sorry for Hancock, a man who obviously didn't have much going for him at this point in his life. "Okay. Wait one. Millie, call down to the bullpen and ask Harper to come up."
"This Harper is a good journalist?" Hancock asked.
"Yeah. Young, but that can be an asset. Less willing to take things on faith alone, you know." It seemed like an admission between two old contemporaries. "Covered the war in Afghanistan."
"Military?"
"No. Correspondent, whatever that means in a digital age. Hand selected by our EP—executive producer—who, by the way, is also rather spectacularly accomplished."
"Ah." Solomon Hancock finally dropped his closely held satchel to the floor and snapped the clasp.
oooo
"Hey, Jim, you're not going to believe this, but some guy—" Neal looked down at his notes, wanting to get the details correct, "Sohaib Athar, although his Twitter handle is ReallyVirtual—anyway this guy seems to have live-tweeted the entire raid. He just happened to be in Abbottabad and didn't know what he was seeing, of course, but—"
"Interesting déjà vu, but still just noise." Jim shot a look over his shoulder, where MacKenzie stood, arms folded, allowing him to run the rundown as she'd promised. He interpreted her silence as agreement. "Kendra?"
"We've got Admiral McRaven, the commander of the Navy SEALS. Narrow window, he's a pretty busy person this week. Since we'll only have a few minutes with him, we need to make every question count."
"Good. Draft some talking points, say eight or nine, and we'll let Will choose the ones he wants."
"Jim." Martin leaned in the door. "Charlie Skinner's admin assistant just called down. You're wanted upstairs."
Jim craned around to look at Mac, but she had already risen.
"Stay here, finish up. I'll see if I can answer whatever questions Charlie has."
Capping her pen, MacKenzie pushed through the glass door back to the bullpen, aware that Will, from his perch at the far end of the table, watched her depart.
Good. Let him wonder.
After the tentative thaw of 'the Rudy hug,' the relationship between them had improved. No more open sniping. His dating escapades became less flagrant, seemingly not as calculated to inflict hurt. She thought a truce centering on mutual professional regard, if nothing else, had evolved.
But it was a brief reprieve and one ended shortly following the bin Laden telecast, when Will had gone on the air high and she had permitted it. The show had gone beautifully, so, of course, he perversely seemed to hold that against her. That or something else. She'd searched her memory but was unable to discern any crime she'd committed that warranted re-imposing the Arctic air between her and Will.
Then Will made the deliberate choice to bring in Brian Brenner to write about News Night, which clearly signaled nothing had been forgiven and never would be.
The only possible reason for having hired Brenner was to hurt Mac. She accepted that. She thought she probably deserved that.
But it didn't make it any more palatable.
She was miserable with Brian in such close proximity, always angling for a personal or professional dig. And it just wrenched her heart that Will would still do this to her. Hadn't she proven her worth by now?
Will appeared as maddeningly distant as he had been for a couple of months. He didn't even seem to take any satisfaction in the hurt he was inflicting.
An elevator car stood open at the landing and MacKenzie ducked into it, depressing the button for Mount Olympus. A human arm stopped the door from closing completely, sliding back to reveal Brian Brenner.
"Gotcha," he smirked. "Big scoop, huh, Mac? You came out of that meeting like you were shot out of a cannon."
"What do you want, Brian?"
"Still waiting to talk to you."
"You don't need me for this story. Will hired you—talk to him."
"I'm not his stenographer, MacKenzie." Brenner visibly bristled. "I came here to write a story about how Will McAvoy and News Night changed overnight, but it's patently obvious that you are the reason for the change in the direction of the show. McAvoy didn't seem unduly troubled by coasting through the last few years, so he doesn't deserve credit for changing the focus of the show. This whole precious 2.0-thing reeks of your naiveté—and the timing, well, it's just happens to coincide with you arriving at ACN."
"It is him. It's the him he used to be." Her defense was still full-throated; it was just that she couldn't bear to look Brian in the eye while she made it.
"Woke Will?" He laughed, crossed his arms, and leaned back against the folded elevator door. "Mighty damned courageous of him. But he's always leading from the rear, if you catch my meaning. He waits to find out the prevailing wind then just blows with it. Skinner brought you in and McAvoy embraced your ideas as an expedient. A surer path to glory. But what gets me is that this isn't merely his pathetic bid to stay relevant—it's that he's co-opted you, too. Covering the Weiner sexting. You must be so proud of your ethics now." He shook his head with amusement.
"Will is a brilliant man with an analytical mind and a passion for justice. There are compromises that have to be made in the real world, Brian. None of us are happy about covering Weiner and the Casey Anthony tragedy, least of all Will, but we have a bigger goal in mind. We're collaborating on the show, true, but—"
"Excuse me, but his boot-prints are all over you, MacKenzie," Brenner grinned. "In fact, I'm really surprised he didn't just follow you to whatever-istan in order to get himself hailed as a great war correspondent." Pause for effect. "But, of course, he doesn't have that kind of stamina, does he? Professionally or—personally."
He let the insinuation hang in the air.
"I don't have time for this, Brian." She punched determinedly again at the elevator button, aware the effort was wasted while he blocked the door but still needing to take some decisive action.
"You know what, MacKenzie? I'm not the one who put me here. I wouldn't have done that." He stepped back from the elevator door, allowing it to close. "He's okay with using you, but he doesn't want you. Can't you see that?"
Mercifully, the door closed, although Brian's words seemed to echo and resound in the chamber.
Using you.
He doesn't want you.
The defenses she'd spouted earlier now seemed hollow. Yes, Will was brilliant. Yes, he was passionate about the news, about giving citizens the information they needed to make good choices at the ballot box.
Yes—he'd also been too willing to settle for less.
But that was her fault, wasn't it?
When Charlie had called with the offer to return to a network control room, it figured as something more than simply professional validation for her. It was the opportunity to restore what had been broken between her and Will.
And once a collegial relationship had been reestablished, perhaps she could even hope that. . .
Damn Brian for so completely and accurately reading the situation.
oooo
Two minutes after he had had Millie call downstairs for Jim, Charlie was having severe misgivings about entertaining Hancock.
The NSA analyst was making the same sing-song allegations about the NSA: the warrantless wiretapping of US citizens, FISA abuses, wanton data mining from business and social media. This time, however, he seemed more strident and less persuasive. Charlie began to wonder if perhaps some mental instability was in evidence.
At least, this time, Hancock had skipped removing the battery from Charlie's cell phone. Perhaps Hancock no longer was looking over his shoulder—or perhaps he was now resigned to possible surveillance—perhaps—
"You talk to Leona Lansing yet?"
"No. Still waiting for the proof you promised that would make her pay attention."
"Sorry, Charlie." He stopped and then laughed at the unintentional funny before resuming. "You know, I gave you the heads-up about the bin Laden mission. It's your turn to give me something before I can provide the evidence about TMI and the Lansings." He sat back and folded his hands.
"If my source is compromised, my story is compromised. Fruit of the poisonous tree. I told you that already."
"Compromised because the staffer you sent to vet me was overwhelmed by some clever gas-lighting by the NSA. They're trying to discredit me. That's what they do, Charlie—that's why this is so important."
Charlie slid one elbow forward on the table. "Look, I want to help. I believe you, Solomon, I believe the things you're saying about the NSA. The Patriot Act is certainly ripe for perversion. But your credibility—"
"Charlie?" Across the room, Mac eased into the room, closing the door behind her. "Millie said you needed something."
"Are you Harper?" The unfamiliar man at the table with Charlie cut her off with his question. "Are you the one who did the vetting on me?"
She looked between Charlie and the unknown man, trying to suss out what dynamic was at work here. Something was out of the norm, that much was obvious.
"I'm MacKenzie McHale, the executive producer of News Night with Will McAvoy."
Charlie stood, relieved for the interruption. "Mac, this is Solomon Hancock. He works at the National Security Agency and he strongly believes we should investigate some abuses that may have been happening there under the guise of a project called Global Clarity."
She took it in, assuming that Charlie had been attempting to let Hancock down gently about the irregularities in his personnel files that had effectively nullified him as a whistle-blower.
"Jim—that's Jim Harper, my senior producer for the show—he's tied up right now with a production meeting, so perhaps I can answer your questions, Mr. Hancock. Whatever they are."
Suddenly, this didn't seem a very good idea to Charlie, and he waved a hand to excuse her. "Go on back to work, Mac, and I'll—"
"Come here." Hancock contradicted. "Over here. Come sit down with us. We were just talking about how you validate your sources. I'd like to know."
Relaxing a bit, she approached the conference table near the window. "You're the one who tipped us about the bin Laden raid."
Hancock made a single nod of affirmation.
"Mr. Hancock takes issue with some of Jim's findings."
She nodded sympathetically. "I understand. It's disturbing to find that highly personal information has been weaponized against you. But I assure you that Jim had no bias—he's thorough, and he's fair. The sort of material that might seem like routine biographic ups-and-downs can be a serious liability in whistle-blower cases. You aren't, um, rock solid, as we say—not the kind of source who will compel the viewers to believe the story. For our purposes, I'm afraid we have to have rock solid."
She paused and moved a little closer. "NSA told Jim your clearance was lowered based upon your last psych assessment—"
"You know damn well that isn't releasable information, even if it were true, which it isn't. It's retaliation." Hancock looked from Mac to Charlie and then back again. "It's a violation of privacy act laws—it denies my administrative due process—"
Mac listened to the protest and nodded but continued. "Then there was the restraining order that you violated—"
"I wanted to see my kids, and she was using visitation as a bargaining chip in the divorce—"
"Nevertheless—"
"You're not hearing me," Hancock protested. "All of this has been orchestrated—designed to squelch what I know, what I have to say. The NSA is doing bad shit, totally unchecked, and it is your responsibility, the media's responsibility—"
"We can't." Charlie chimed in, intending to be the final word. "We can't risk associating a story of this magnitude with you."
"Well, let's see what you can risk, Charlie." Hancock rummaged through the bag at his feet and withdrew a small cylindrical gadget wrapped in silvery duct tape. A lever jutted out at a forty-five degree angle and Hancock squeezed it until there was an audible click.
He looked up at them, smiling sunnily. "That secretary of yours outside. Nice lady. You ought to send her home for the day."
Charlie frowned, struggling to keep up with the peculiar change of topics. "Millie? Send her—? I don't—"
"Because I've armed this now and otherwise the blast radius will take her out, too."
Mac unpacked Hancock's meaning a fraction of a second ahead of Charlie, her memory suddenly jogged enough to recognize the threat in the device Hancock held. "Beslan," she whispered, more to herself than the others.
Hancock laughed outright and looked to Charlie. "She's good," he said, approvingly. "Now, you make that call and send that out there woman home. Okay?"
Charlie looked from Mac to Hancock and back again, trying to discern what he'd missed. The verbal threat was unmistakable. He just couldn't see the basis for it.
Hancock read his confusion and nodded at Mac. "You tell him."
Following a long pause, she cleared her throat. "Remember the Chechen terrorists in 2004?"
"They took a lot of hostages at a Russian school." Charlie still couldn't put it together.
"Over eleven hundred. It was one of the first stories I covered. Not that many western journalists are fluent in Russian," she added. "But the terrorists used a very specific apparatus—a crude deadman's switch. They called it the Beslan trigger."
Charlie picked up the phone. "Millie. I don't think I need anything more today, so why don't you take the afternoon—no, no, I'm sure—please, just go. Now."