Blackout (23 page)

Thursday, September 10, 12:10 p.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

Riley stood behind Scott Ross and watched the computer monitor on his friend's desk. Next to Riley stood Khadi.

Scott had told Riley about the surprise inspection yesterday and how Porter had saved their backsides again. This time, though, the bailout came with a warning—Porter was running out of chips to play, and next time he might not be able to come through.

But that was yesterday, and today was today. And each day seemed to bring new problems of its own.

“Go ahead and play it,” Riley said angrily.

Scott clicked the white triangle that was placed on the middle of Riley's face, and the SportsCenter story began playing.

“Good afternoon, I'm Jackie LeTourneau, and welcome to ESPN's SportsCenter. Leading off today is a troubling story regarding the alleged attack on Washington Warriors linebacker Riley Covington. Here to tell us about it is Whitney Walker.”

“Unbelievable,” Riley said, as the video switched to a two-shot.

“Whitney, we were all shocked to hear what happened to Covington last week. But you've uncovered some evidence that might give us a different take. What can you tell us about the alleged assault?”

“Thank you, Jackie. A number of months ago, I met Riley Covington while he was going through a well-publicized, extremely difficult time in his life. Since that time, Riley has confided many things to me about his life. Sometimes he gave me permission to share his stories with the public. Most of the time, though, I simply provided an off-the-record listening ear.”

Riley felt Khadi's eyes on him. “Please,” he said, disgusted.

“Last May, Riley asked me to do him a special favor—to run a story for him on the local television station where I was employed as a sports reporter. Although I knew certain aspects of the story weren't wholly accurate, I still did it because Riley made it clear that it was a life-and-death situation for him and others. However, at that time I stipulated to him that he must never ask me to be part of something like that again.”

Riley was about to defend himself, but Scott said, “Shut up; we know.”

“He held to his part of the agreement until yesterday, when I received a call from Riley in which he asked me to participate in the cover-up of the faked attack last Tuesday.”

“I'm sorry, did you say ‘faked attack'?”

“I'm afraid so, Jackie. I declined to be part of his scheme, reminding him of his promise to me, and he apologized for asking. I began prompting him for information about the Georgetown attack while reaching to activate my phone recorder. By the time it was turned on, Riley was wrapping up the conversation. I believe I captured enough, however, to demonstrate the gist of what took place.”

A graphic with a telephone appeared on the screen. Whitney's picture was on the left, and Riley's was on the right. Down below, the conversation was captioned in white letters.

Whitney Walker:
Come on, Riley, wasn't that attack a little too convenient? Unknown Muslim wacko stabs football star and vanishes into thin air. Then Riley vanishes too.

Riley Covington:
I should have been more careful. What do you want me to say?

Walker:
I want you to tell me the truth!

Covington:
The truth . . . things aren't always the way they seem. I'm sorry, Whitney; it's not like this is a big surprise.

Walker:
I'm just worried about you.

Covington:
I wouldn't have it any other way.

Walker:
Well, I guess I'll probably see you in New York.

Covington:
Let's plan on it.

“I tried reaching the Washington Warriors and the Department of Homeland Security for comment. My calls were not returned. As much as it pains me to report this story, Jackie, particularly as it concerns someone for whom I continue to have the deepest respect, I felt I had to do it. We were all horrified at what we perceived as the events that took place last Tuesday. Now it appears that they were not what they seemed.”

“And it seems that maybe Riley Covington is not what he appears to be either. Thank you, Whitney, for reporting what is obviously a very personally painful story.”

The picture froze with the anchor's mouth half-open, ready to move on to the next sports event.

Silence filled the small office. Riley held the back of Scott's chair in an iron grip. Khadi's hand reached up and rested on his shoulder, causing Riley's fingers to loosen their grip and his body to lose some of its tension.

“I'm sorry, guys. I let my guard down,” Riley said quietly.

“Don't be too hard on yourself,” Scott said, turning his chair around. Then, realizing that he was now knee to knee with Riley, he turned it back partway and cocked his head to the right. “Reporters are all sneaky little vermin.”

“That's not true,” Riley said quickly. “Most of them are honest, hardworking people who can be trusted to keep ‘off-the-record' off the record. Of course, there are some that will stab their own mothers in the back to get a juicy story, but this . . . this is beyond anything I've ever experienced before. Actually editing my words—unbelievable.”

“Well, she got what she wanted. A news story that should make her a household name, with a dose of revenge on top,” Khadi said.

“Revenge? How so?” Riley asked.

“Come on, Riley,” Khadi answered, looking at her feet as she spoke, “I know a woman scorned when I see one. She didn't just want the story; she wanted to hurt you in the process.”

Riley looked at Khadi, but she would not meet his gaze. He decided not to respond to her comments.
I'm not going to dive into that one right now.

Instead, turning to Scott, he asked, “What do we do now? Are we toast?”

Scott just smiled and pressed a button on his phone. “Oh, Gooey?”

A click was heard, then the sound of some fumbling around, and finally Gooey's voice saying, “Oh, Scotty.”

“I'm assuming you've seen the ESPN story on Riley.”

“Man, did he royally screw us up or what?”

“Hi, Goo,” Riley said.

“. . . No comprende; lo siento,”
Gooey replied in his best Frito Bandito accent.

Riley had to chuckle. “Don't sweat it. I feel the same way.”

“Hey, Gooman,” Scott said, “here's the skinny. It seems the fair Miss Walker did a little magic with the editing machine and pieced together the so-called incriminating evidence.”

Gooey made his feelings about Whitney known. Then he added, “Uh, excuse my French, please, Khadi. That is, if Khadi's in there, which I just assumed she is since Riley's in there, but I guess that doesn't have to be true because it's not like they're attached at the hip or anything, although I'm still willing to bet dollars to do-rags that I'm probably right.”

“It's okay, Gooey,” Khadi said. “And I agree with your assessment of her.”

“Okay, then. So where was I? Oh yeah—now it makes sense. I thought Riley's inflections sounded off!”

“As only you would know, my friend,” Scott said. “Now, obviously this little ruse has put us in a bit of a predicament. So I'm going to put you in charge of a little project that I'm christening Operation Keep the Lie Alive.”

“Operation Keep the Lie Alive . . . Gooey likey.”

Already Riley felt bad for Whitney. If there was one person he wouldn't want sicced on him, it would be that seemingly harmless blob of KFC grease and Pez that sat in the corner of the RoU.

“Do what you need to do to repair the situation, Gooey, but try not to take Whitney down too hard,” Riley said and immediately felt Khadi remove her hand from his shoulder.

“No comprende, amigo. Adios.”
Gooey clicked off the other line.

Scott's phone rang.

“Excuse me, guys; that's my secure line.”

“No prob,” Riley said.

“Ross,” Scott said after turning fully back to his desk and snatching up the receiver.

Riley and Khadi started to head out the door but were stopped by Scott's snapping fingers.

“Double O, how're things across the pond? Did you get that case of Dr Pepper I sent you? . . . It was no problem. It's like the first time I tried Yoo-hoo—instantly addicted. . . . Definitely, and a lot cheaper, too. Besides, I could never shoot up. I'm terrified of needles.” Scott laughed as he wrote,
Anna Zeller, MI6
on a Post-it note and passed it to Riley and Khadi.

“So what's up? You're secure from that end? . . . Yeah, that was us. . . . No, that wasn't part of the plan. They had a guy on board. He confettied the package, along with himself. . . . I knew it! One of our guys said they thought they saw him making a call on a sat. . . . I was afraid of that! And you said they're rushing it out, too?”

Scott passed another paper over. On it he had scrawled what looked like
Sending another lilimrj system
. Riley leaned over his shoulder and pointed at the third word. Scott snatched the note out of Riley's hand, scribbled over
lilimrj
, and wrote
delivery
.

“Ohhh,” Riley and Khadi said together.

“. . . That's majorly bad news because we're still just sitting ducks. The kids here are hugely frustrated. It was a near miracle finding the one we did find. I hate to ask you this, Anna, but is there any way to get word back to your DPRK muckety-muck guy to see if he can get us any more details about where and when these . . . Seriously?”

Scott quickly scribbled another note and sent it flying over his shoulder. Riley caught it on its way down and held it for Khadi and him to read—
Kor govt mole burned ~ think whole pipeline wiped.

“. . . Oh, man, I'm sorry. That sucks with major suckage. Hey, Double O, I got a couple of folks in here that I need to talk to. Can I give you a call back in about thirty minutes? I'll give you the full scoop on the MSC
Shirley
op then. . . . Yeah, you too. And thanks tons.”

Scott hung up the phone, turned around so that he was knee to knee with Riley again, and said, “Just when you didn't think it could get any worse.”

Sunday, September 13, 9:15 p.m. EDT

New York, New York

The football came spiraling right at Riley. The receiver for the PFL Cup champion New York Liberty had let the pass get through his hands, and now there was no one between Riley and the ball. His adrenaline surged, but just before it reached him, he stepped aside and let the pass bounce to the turf.

“Do you know how hard it was to do that?” he asked Skeeter, who was standing next to him on the sidelines.

“Mmm,” came the reply.

“Because, you know, I could have had that. Probably would have taken it back for six.”

Skeeter didn't bother to respond.

“Nice hands, Covington,” called a voice from the stands.

“Shut up! He's a hero,” yelled out a defender of his, who then began a chant of “Riley! Riley!”

Riley turned around to give a little wave to the fan, who, it turned out, was holding a large sign that read:

N
ew York

B
elieves

C
ovington

The network will love that one,
he chuckled to himself, giving the fan a thumbs-up.

This was how most of the game had gone. As Riley and Skeeter wandered the sidelines, people would yell out well-wishes and words of support. But then someone would break through with some negative comment.
(They can't help themselves; this is New York!)
Immediately that person would get verbally jumped on by the people around, and some new chant would break out—“Riley! Riley!” or “Covington! Covington!” or “R . . . I . . . L-E-Y! Riley's New York's kind of guy!”

Every now and then as they slowly wandered back and forth, some fans would start something inappropriate, thinking they were expressing Riley's beliefs—chants like “Islam sucks! Islam sucks!” or “Bomb Iran! Bomb Iran!” When those started, Riley quickly glared up into the crowd and motioned for them to cut it.

I can live with this. At least the believers seem to outnumber the unbelievers. It's too bad they're the ones who are wrong.

Gooey had done a spectacular job with Operation Keep the Lie Alive even after Riley had toned him down a bit. Initially Gooey had done a complete analysis on the sound recording, showing every edit and misplaced word—even using background noise to demonstrate the manufactured chronology of Whitney's tape. He was all prepared to release that to the press when Riley stopped him. He knew if that analysis were released, Whitney's career would be ruined forever. So, although Scott and Khadi both gave it an enthusiastic go-ahead, Riley put on the kibosh.

Grumpily, Gooey had gone back to his corner of the RoU to plot some alternative evil. Six hours later, he emerged with Plan B—a little scheme that involved some fancy computer work and a “leak” to some inquiring minds. Riley was home at the time, but after hearing Khadi's endorsement, he gave it the go-ahead.

Two days later, in supermarkets across the nation, shoppers waiting in line were picking up copies of the
National Enquirer
and reading the headline, “Shocking Riley Covington Photos!” Immediately below, covering most of the page, was a slightly blurry close-up taken in an emergency room. The patient's face, clearly seen under the oxygen mask, was Riley's. Below was written, “Warning, Graphic Photos Inside!”

On page 6 was a series of three more pictures. One was a wide shot showing the medical team frantically working on Riley. The second showed his full left side. His face was visible, as were the stab wounds, and his left hip with a red circle on it. Written next to the circle were the words, “Scar from bullet wound Covington received while serving with the Air Force Special Ops in Afghanistan.” The third snapshot was a close-up of the stab wounds—ragged, bruised, and bleeding.

Soon the ER photos were on every newscast in the country—most having the decency to pixilate the wounds. Riley was amazed when he first saw the pictures. If he weren't so sure that he had never actually been stabbed, he would have sworn that was him lying on the operating table.

A firestorm of debate soon arose as to who was telling the truth. The National Rifle Association's press release sided with Riley, while the National Organization for Women's release threw their support behind Whitney. Sean Hannity touted Riley as a Great American. Bill O'Reilly labeled Whitney a Pinhead. The ladies on
The View
proclaimed Whitney Walker Day. Keith Olbermann blamed the whole situation on the Republicans.

Yesterday Riley had received a message on his cell phone. After entering his password, he was surprised to hear Whitney's voice.

“It's me. I . . . I never wanted it to turn out this way. I want you to know that if there was any way to take it all back, I would. I betrayed all my journalistic principles—all my integrity, all the things I swore up and down that I held so dear.

“I don't know what happened. I was just so . . . I still think I'm right, Riley. I really do believe that the whole thing was a setup. But what I did was wrong.

“You may be happy to know that I'm probably going to be let go from ESPN tomorrow—at least that's what the rumors are. . . . This whole thing is just so messed up—so . . . wrong! You really disappointed me, Riley. I thought . . . I don't know what I thought. I don't even know why I called. I guess I just wanted to tell you that I wish I hadn't done it. I know there was a reason why you did what you did, and whatever that reason is, I just hope you come out of it safe.

“Now, I'm going to ask you one more favor—the last one I'll ever ask. Please don't let anyone else hear this message. I know you could put the final nail in my career's coffin, but . . . but I don't think you will. I really wish things had turned out differently.”

When Whitney's voice ended, Riley looked up at the ceiling before pressing 7, deleting the message.
What a shame. One bad play and you blow your career,
he had thought.
Whitney was right; the whole thing is just so messed up.

Apparently the only ones who were really happy about the attack debate were the owners of the
National Enquirer
, who sold five times their normal circulation run. And Rick Bellefeuille, too, who loved the publicity so much that he even put a link to the photos on the Warriors Web page.

Now here Riley was on the sidelines, watching a team he had never wanted to be part of, not playing because of a faked injury, being cheered on by fans whose very loyalty was based on a deception.
On top of that, this whole double life is going to make me insane! How am I supposed to go from almost getting blown up on a container ship one day to pretending to still be a football player a few days later, then back to shooting up bad guys again when the game is done? It's like stepping from one parallel universe to another and back again.

Suddenly, a chant started behind him: “Walker was right! Walker was right!” This was countered by a second chant describing Whitney in a far less favorable light. Riley spun in time to see one fan dump his beer on the head of another. The second guy wheeled around and decked the first. Soon an all-out brawl was on, with the spouses and friends jumping in. Eventually security arrived and escorted about ten people out.

Riley turned around and faced the field.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered to Skeeter as he scratched at the tape on his left side. Another of Scott's brilliant ideas was to tape a slightly curved metal splint onto Riley, then put his left arm in a sling. That way his slightly bent body would add to the charade of his pain and would keep him from doing anything dumb—like trying to catch an errant pass. This would have been fine with Riley, except his skin was having some sort of allergic reaction to the splint, and the itching was driving him crazy.

How did I end up here?
he asked himself again. Part of what made standing on the Warriors' sidelines so difficult tonight of all nights was the fact that somewhere not too far from him, the Colorado Mustangs were on a bus on their way to the airport.

For many years, the New York Liberty and the New York Dragons had shared a stadium. This season, that changed. Earlier this afternoon, the New York Dragons had opened the Dell Dome, located only five miles from their old playing field. NBC had taken the opportunity to celebrate the new state-of-the-art facility by scheduling a New York double-header of Sunday night PFL football: for the first time in history, two professional football games played in two separate New York stadiums all on one big night! Both games were sold out, with fans desperate to show their loyalty to one team or the other. Riley had watched the scoreboard during pregame and was happy to see that the Mustangs had disappointed the Dragon fans by handing the PFL Cup runners-up a 42–17 rout.

So instead of being with the football team I love, or even working with the CTD team doing something meaningful like trying to find the EMPs, I'm here wasting time with a team I don't even like, playing for an owner that I absolutely despise, being heckled by fans who—

Riley's thoughts were interrupted when every light in the stadium went black.