Chapter 2
Constant Bearing
Rain ran thickly down the large front window of Compass Coffee on North 7th in D.C., where Jim and Maggie sat. A scattered formation of a half dozen demitasses rested between them, the debris of coffee flights preliminary to the main event.
"Figure out which one you want yet?" Jim asked, trying to catch the eye of the barista-cum-server.
"Turkish roast," Maggie returned distractedly, reaching for her smart phone. "Twitter's crazy with the weather. Extensive squall line—supercells in the mid-west—four inch hail—" She looked up. "Good thing you had already planned to take the train back to the city tomorrow. The weather-related flight delays are going to be incredible as this system pushes through."
Jim sighed with the frustration of being unable to signal the barista and pushed himself to his feet. "Looks like we won't be served unless I—"
"Wait one." Maggie's hand dropped on his sleeve. "This might be—shit, I've had it on mute—wait, I've got to—" She put the phone to her ear. "Whatcha got? When? Who's available? Who else? No, get Terry instead. On my way."
She met Jim's expectant stare. "It's raining like something out of Genesis and no one's where they should be. You know how desperate the situation is when I'm the first person the intern can find on a cold, wet Sunday afternoon."
He started digging bills out of his wallet to settle for the coffees. "What's up?"
"Reuters is reporting there's a video of Drew Murdoch. We're going to break in with it." She slipped her scarf on and reached for the still wet umbrella. "You'd better see if you can reach Mac and give her a heads up."
oooo
At the Schoenfeld Theatre in the heart of Manhattan's theatre district, the revival of Terrance McNally's It's Only a Play was by-the-numbers funny. The performances, seemingly effortless, were top-notch from a superb cast, presided over by Nathan Lane.
Whereas Mac obediently had turned off her phone completely in deference to the announcement before the show began, Will merely muted his. Later, she appeared to be enjoying the show so much that Will chose to wait until the show's end to relay to her the text from Jim he'd found at intermission. The text that advised of a video posted, purportedly of one of the three journalists held by the al-Nusra Front.
In the car, Mac tugged off a glove and searched on her phone.
"I've got it," Will announced, moving his phone's screen where they could both see it.
In front of the ACN Breaking News banner, Terry Smith leaned into the camera.
"This is Terry Smith in Washington. We are breaking into our normal broadcast to bring you news of westerners believed held in Syria by an anti-government faction. This morning, the following video was posted to an IRC channel frequented by known Jihadists and Syrian insurgents." He paused as the grainy, shaky film showed an unshaven man, blindfolded, head bowed.
Mac squinted at the screen.
"It isn't him."
Smith's voice over resumed, eerily underscoring what she had just declared. "Originally misidentified as Andrew Murdoch, a correspondent for this network, this image has now been confirmed to be that of Simon Maner, a New Zealander humanitarian worker who disappeared on July 13th and is presumed to be held with Murdoch and two other journalists, Saad Daoud and Ammar Akkad. The video itself is silent but has been tentatively dated as less than two weeks old by U.S. intelligence analysts. The text that accompanied the on line publication purports that Maner decries U.S.-led interference in Syrian self-determination and pleads for an end to arms backing. The U.S. Department of State called upon Maner's captors to release him and others without conditions, calling their captivity 'an affront to humanitarian efforts.'"
"Stalemate. As expected." Will tucked his phone back into his pocket and looked to Mac with concern. "You okay?"
She slumped against the seat, visibly defeated, and nodded in the over-quick manner that he knew meant she was struggling to hold her composure.
He spoke quickly to try to reassure her.
"I'm sure there are efforts being made—back channels. The publisher of The Atlantic—what's his name? Bradley?—he's been working with international agencies and government sources, trying to locate and repatriate some of the journalists missing in Syria. Maybe he—"
"This needs more than just furtive meetings with go-betweens in Jordan or Lebanon—"
"He has both deep pockets and a deep personal commitment to this."
"He still won't risk jail for it." She was a bit annoyed that Will seemed oblivious to that prospect. "Not everyone is as anxious as you are to irritate the government and wind up incarcerated. And, if it was only money, we could even—I don't know—open a Go-Fund-Me account? But that isn't possible, is it?" She levelled her eyes at his. "Sloan came to see me last week, you know. Wanted to remind me that your effort to free Amen a couple of years ago has guaranteed we're under surveillance. So, we won't be making any contributions to ransom demands. Also—and perhaps I don't have to mention this,too—we should keep a lid on major transactions. No IT start-ups with Neal. No restaurant partnerships with Nina—" she paused to gauge his reaction to that one. "Not even anything from Tiffany's until this is resolved—"
"No restaurant ventures unless they involve actually eating," he returned lightly. "And particularly not with—" He frowned and reached to pull her to him. "Kenz. You look so troubled."
"—Although I can't help but think that what we really need right now is a Spec Ops swoop-and-kill. Perhaps we could hire Xe or some other soldiers-of-fortune."
"Murdoch knew what he signed up for, Mac."
"I know what I signed up for, too, and it wasn't this. I'm just so—so angry—he had no right to do this, to put all this on me, to think that it wouldn't matter—"
"Murdoch?" That couldn't be whom she meant. Why would she be angry with Murdoch? "Pruit?" Even the name was sour on his lips.
"Charlie."
"Charlie? You're angry with Charlie Skinner—for what? Dying?"
"Yes. Yes, I am." She averted her eyes, uncomfortable with the new expression on Will's face. "He left this mess. Pruit and the coronation of mediocrity. And our team, the one we put together, is attriting away. Neal. Sloan. Maggie. Elliot." She gave a bitter laugh. "Even Reese, in a manner of speaking." But of all the absences, none was more hurtful than that of Charlie himself. Mac couldn't shake the sense that he would have somehow contrived to protect them, protect the integrity of ACN, as she was so obviously failing to do.
"MacKenzie," he said patiently, not wanting this to spool into argument.
"Let's forget dinner out, if that's okay. Please. Just get us home, Will. My head is pounding." She put her forehead to the cool window and closed her eyes.
oooo
On Monday morning, Will called Sloan.
"Hey, bro'," she answered cheerily on the second ring. "Haven't heard from you in a—"
"Sloan. I need you to do me a favor." Will knew he was entering a minefield where hurt feelings and indignation were the likely hazards, so he wanted his words to be clear and non-judgmental. This needed to be a precision strike.
"Sure, anything."
"I need for you to keep your visits to Mac on a strictly personal basis."
There was a sharp intake of air that indicated the trip-wire for indignation had been triggered. Then, slowly, "What are you saying, Will?"
"I'm sure you've seen the news about Drew Murdoch. Mac is taking it very much to heart—"
"She wouldn't be Mac if she didn't." Flat statement.
"Yeah—and so she told me you stopped by last week—"
"I didn't tell her anything that either of you probably wouldn't have realized in short order—"
"That's right, too. I'm not accusing you of bad advice, just asking that you bring that sort of thing to me first, instead of her."
"You're not the president of ACN."
"Let's say that I'm trying to screen problems for her."
There was a five second pause on the line. "I think that is so totally unlike what she would want."
"There's a lot on her right now. Trying to get on the same page as Pruit. New owner, new philosophies, you know. Pregnancy. Getting this old man through the pregnancy." He tried to manufacture a chuckle but it fell flat. He didn't even want to go into what had happened when they had arrived home the previous evening, how Mac's nervous anxiety had turned into nausea and then dry-heaves. No, the best thing he could do for Mac right now was buffer the incoming. "I'm worried that she may not have the reserves that she's had in the past—and that she'll have again, of course, once we get past the current obstacles. For the time being, I just want to shelter her from some of the day-to-day—"
Sloan made a harrumphing sound. "Going to run interference with Pruit and his stooges? Well, good luck with that. Okay, Will. I can't imagine what else I would ever have to contribute, but if I come up with something vaguely work-related, I'll pass it through you first." Then, sotto voce, "Even though we both know that isn't what she would want."
"Thanks, Sloan. Looking forward to seeing you at dinner on Thanksgiving."
"Pie, McAvoy. I'm coming for the pie. Pumpkin or pecan. And, oh, by the way—"
"Yeah?"
"If you really want to pre-digest Mac's day for her, you'd be better off cozying up to Maudie—"
"Millie?"
"Okay, yeah, Millie. Mac's assistant. EAs always know where the bodies are buried. She can probably clue you in what insanity Pruit is planning next."
oooo
As Will and Sloan conversed, the ostensible subject of their concern was herself sitting in a consulting room at her doctor's office uptown.
When the doctor strode back into the room, she hastily put aside the cell phone and smiled.
"All clear?"
"Almost." Doctor Stone shook open her glasses and put them on to check the chart. "How are you sleeping?"
"No problems. Have to get up for the loo once or twice a night, but when I sleep, it's a sound one."
"Do you wear glasses?"
"Sometimes for reading." Mac was confused.
"Have you noticed any changes in your vision?"
"No. Why?" The questions seemed odd, which put her on alert. "You're concerned about something?"
"Probably nothing, but we need to watch your blood pressure. Your systolic registered 135 and that is a bit high for you. You've heard of gestational hypertension? It affects about 1 in 12 pregnancies and your age makes you a candidate."
Mac rolled her eyes. It was hard to think of thirty-eight as elderly, by anyone's measure, but the number of times her age came up as a potentially deleterious factor made her think that she should just capitulate now and apply for membership in AARP.
Dr. Stone continued. "So, I want to check your BP twice weekly from now on. Kathy can set you up with a recurring appointment that has minimal impact to your schedule. Urinalysis, too." She shrugged. "Sorry. I know you hate this. But we want to keep you healthy, keep you both healthy."
oooo
The Wednesday lunchtime crowd was swarming at Lenny's Sandwich Shop in Rockerfeller Plaza. Sloan eyed Don's Reuben sandwich with open lust before sighing and stabbing at a forkful of greens from her salad.
"So, what's new in the world of high finance?" Don asked.
"You know. A mark, a yen, a buck, or a pound." She shrugged. "Except, of course, that there aren't Deutsche marks any more. Or maybe there are and we just call them euros now."
He laughed and pinched some sauerkraut that had fallen from his sandwich and popped it into his mouth. "Is that commentary on politics or currencies?"
"I intended it as a comment on anachronisms, so perhaps it's a little of both." She resumed her longing stare at the French fries on his plate. "When does Elliot come back?"
"Next Monday night and that segue had better not be implication that Right Now is an anachronism." He watched her shake her head vigorously. "It'll be a short week, owing to the holiday, so we'll ease back into things. Then, the following week, there are only two shows before both Elliot and Will have to go to that sponsor thing with Pruit."
"Sponsor thing?"
"Yeah, the biennial grip-and-grin with corporate sponsors. Or, as I call it, Meet your Masters. Pruit trots out his stable of thoroughbreds—Will, Elliot, Tony Hart and Maria Whatshername—and everyone gets to recalibrate the going rate for a 20 second commercial spot, based on ratings and all. What with all the talk of de-bundling cable, it's more important than ever. Reese and Charlie used to go."
"Mac's not going?"
"Evidently not. And I don't know if that was her idea or Pruit's. But she's essentially written the presentation for him, so she'll be there anyway, in a manner of speaking." He watched her watching him with amusement. "You know, I'll never finish all these fries. Why don't you help yourself?"
Her eyes shot to the ceiling. "I really can't."
"Okay. As I was saying, I think Mac feels like she needs to keep an eye on things here. ACN Digital has been running roughshod over the newsroom and she has to mediate the turf wars." He paused. "It's funny, you know, but the level of fear and hostility presently at ACN probably mitigates any value in having saved it."
"So you endorse selling off the parts?"
He pushed his plate away and wiped his hands on the napkin. "I just don't know what's been saved. News is on the ropes."
"Jobs have been saved, for one thing. Any economist could tell you that. Let alone anyone who gets a paycheck. Are you gonna eat that?" Sloan deftly swapped plates. "The Lansings were under the gun. They had only ten days to raise $4 billion. Catch up."
He looked puzzled. "I'm with you—"
"No. Ketchup." She pointed to the bottle of Heinz and he passed it to her. "If they'd had more time, Pruit would have never gotten his shot at ACN."
"I don't—"
"AWM was never the sum of its parts. Reese got that but his sibs never did." She caught the look of confusion on Don's face. "The conventional wisdom behind divestments has always been what the twins advocated. Sell off components of the company. Make short term profits. That might even be in Mergers & Acquisitions 101 for all I know. But much of AWM's capital wealth couldn't be readily converted to cash." She stopped, a French fry poised in her hand.
"You ever been to Cincinnati?"
He laughed, at both the non sequitur and the incongruence of the sultry currency analyst waving a fried potato at him and speaking to him of a mid-western city once known as Porkopolis.
"Wanna go?"
He had to keep laughing. This was too funny.
"Well, I'm not doing much else, at the moment."
oooo
"Say that again." Mac slipped her glasses off, pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes.
"Peter's Prognostications. What we do is, once a week, at the end of News Night, have this psychic make some predictions about what's going to happen in the next week. Weather. Shootings. Whatever. Maybe even a bombing or something." Bree Dorrit felt expansive under Mac's attention and that made him voluble. "Actually, the more outlandish, the better, because we want the viewer to tune in the following week to see whether the predictions came true."
"And this—psychic—is somebody who—"
"It doesn't matter," he exulted. "If he's right, they'll tune in because they believe him and want to hear more—and if he's wrong, they'll tune in to see the mea culpa—"
"On Will's show?"
"It's fail-safe in the short-term, ratings-wise. That's the beauty of it. And it will be a sensation on social media—bring a lot of buzz to the show—"
She adjusted her position in her chair to something approximating greater comfort as her tenant poked various internal organs. "But it isn't news."
"Well, it isn't news yet. But news becomes history in just moments, and we could still hype the heck out of—"
"No."
"Well, I guess we could try it out on the Hirsch show first. If you want, I'll talk to Keefer when he gets back—"
"That won't be necessary, Bree. We won't be having psychics—or tarot card readers—or anything else like that on ACN for the foreseeable future."
Truculence returned to his expression. "I should tell you I've already bounced this off Lucas and he seemed—"
"I said no, and no it is."
Bree stomped out and Mac just sat, still dumbstruck by the whole exchange. This would doubtless be the topic (one of the topics, she amended) at the next row with Lucas Pruit, but she felt on firm ground. Even Pruit could be made to feel trepidation at tying the flagship program to such lunacy.
No sooner than Bree had departed than Millie announced Pruit's other protégé, Andrea Wells, was back with further questions about the presentation for the sponsors meeting. This time, the sticking point seemed to be the slide citing potential impacts resulting from Pruit's moves to de-bundle ACN from other networks within the traditional basic cable television package. While moving ACN to a premier tier package would narrow the audience, in terms of sheer numbers, the demographic would arguably reflect a better educated, better monied segment of the viewing public. This was very attractive to advertisers of luxury products, which promised to translate into corresponding increased ad revenues. Exactly the kind of sponsor Pruit wished to cultivate. Understanding the importance of putting the most optimistic spin possible on the situation, Mac courted euphemism after euphemism to describe the same thing. Andrea, a nervous, petite blonde, diligently printed Mac's phrasing and ideas onto her copy of the presentation, promising to make the changes and take them back to their boss for final approval.
Mac rose and stretched against her desk, trying to straighten her spine after hours of sitting.
"Can I interrupt?" Jim's head showed around the door.
Finally, a welcome visitor.
"After my day, you're a sight for sore eyes. Come in and talk to me."
"Okay," he grinned, "but I'm only here for frivolous reasons. If you have weighty business you need to conduct—"
"I am so weary of what passes for weighty business in this office that you wouldn't believe it." She shook her head with a sorrowful smile. "So, distract me. Amuse me."
"Ahh. First, I have to relay that Millie left for the day. I think she got tired of waiting for the current Miss Schweppes-Bitter-Lemon to finish. And, second, I found this on Millie's desk—guess it was couriered over." He handed the large manila envelope to her. "Thought it might be important and didn't want to just leave it sitting out there."
"Thanks." She glanced at it before sliding it to the side of her desk.
"Hmm. Amuse you." He considered for a moment. "Remember that guy Westbrook from the EPA?"
That elicited genuine laughter. "Will's face, during that interview—"
"Yeah, well, he called Maggie up recently. Wants another spot."
"One apocalypse wasn't enough?"
"He thinks he made 'significant inroads' with the interview on News Night. Suggests that if we'll allow him to expound on the subject of polychlorinated biphenyls in the oceans, we can finally rouse the public to environmental action."
"Too much."
"Well, you have to appreciate the irony. A credentialed scientist shouts in the societal wilderness, but what the world really wants to hear about is Jodi Arias."
"Or Paula Deen," she added. "Enjoy yourself in D.C. last weekend?"
Slow grin. "Yeah."
"She's coming here this weekend?"
"We're giving it a rest this weekend, but she'll be here beginning Wednesday night. Balloon-glow in Central Park, parade, shopping, the whole thing."
"You're both very welcome for dinner with us on Thursday."
"Yeah, Will invited me. I'll have to talk to Maggie, but will let you know something soon." He rubbed his palms on his pants. "Hey, if you're done for the day, why don't you come down for the show? We can screw with Will from Control."
"Now that sounds like fun. You go ahead, and I'll close up a few things here and then be right down."
When the door closed behind him, Mac picked up the envelope with the familiar sloping cursive in green ink. She hooked a finger under an edge and ripped along the fold, then upended the envelope. A single photograph fell out.
Will in a restaurant booth, in deep conversation with Nina Howard.
Chapter 2 A/N: "Peter's Prognostications" is a riff of "Sybil the Soothsayer," contained in Paddy Chayefsky's still jaw-droppingly prescient Network.