The Fourth K (37 page)

When the meeting broke up, it was only Bert Audick who considered more radical measures.

Right after the meeting Lawrence Salentine was summoned by President Francis Kennedy. When Salentine appeared in the Oval Office, he saw that Attorney General Christian Klee was also present, which made him even more wary. There were no civilities; this was not the charming Kennedy but, Salentine felt, a man seeking some sort of vengeance.

Kennedy said, “Mr. Salentine, I don’t want to mince words. I want to be absolutely frank. My Attorney General, Mr. Klee, and I have discussed filing RICO criminal charges against your TV network and the other networks. He has persuaded me that it may be too harsh a punishment. Specifically you and the other media giants were in a conspiracy to remove me from the presidency. You supported Congress in their impeachment of me.”

Salentine said, “It was in our function as a media company to report on a political development.”

Klee said coldly, “Cut the bullshit, Lawrence, you guys ganged up on us.”

Kennedy said, “That’s past history. Let’s go on. You media companies have been having a picnic for years, decades. I am not going to allow a corporate umbrella to dominate the communications media of this country. Ownership of TV stations will be limited to TV. They cannot own book companies. They cannot own magazines. They cannot own newspapers. They cannot own movie studios. They cannot own cable companies. That is too much power. You run too much advertising. That is going to be limited. I want you to take that message back to your friends. During the impeachment process you unlawfully barred the President of
the United States from the airwaves. That will never happen again.”

Salentine told the President that he didn’t believe Congress would allow him to do what he planned. Kennedy grinned at him, and said, “Not this Congress, but we have an election in November. And I’m going to run for reelection. And I’m going to campaign for people in Congress who will support my views.”

Lawrence Salentine went back to his fellow TV station owners and gave them the bad news. “We have two courses of action,” he said. “We can start helping the President out by supporting him when we cover his actions and his policies. Or we can remain free and independent and oppose him when we feel it necessary.” He paused for a moment and said, “This may be a very perilous time for us. Not just loss of revenue, not just regulatory restrictions, but if Kennedy goes far enough it may even be our losing our licenses.”

This was too much. It was inconceivable that the network licenses could be lost. It would be like the homesteaders in early frontier days seeing their land go back to the government. The granting of TV station licenses, the free access to the airwaves had always belonged to people like Salentine. It seemed to them now a natural right. And so the owners made the decision that they would not truckle to the President of the United States, that they would remain free and independent. And that they would expose Kennedy as the dangerous menace to American democratic capitalism that he surely was. Salentine would relay this decision to the important members of the Socrates Club.

Salentine brooded for days on how to mount a TV campaign against the President on his TV network without making it seem too obvious. After all, the American public
believed in fair play; they would resent a blatant hatchet job. The American public believed in the due process of law though they were the most criminal populace in the world.

He moved carefully. First step, he had to enlist Cassandra Chutt, who had the highest-rated national news program. Of course, he couldn’t be too direct; anchor people jealously guarded against overt interference. But they had not achieved their eminence without playing ball with top management. And Cassandra Chutt knew how to play ball.

Salentine had nurtured her career over the last twenty years. He had known her when she was on the early-morning programs and then when she had switched to evening news. She had always been shameless in her pursuit of advancement. She had been known to collar a Secretary of State and burst into tears, shouting that if he did not give a two-minute interview she would lose her job. She had cajoled and flattered and blackmailed the celebrated into appearing on her prime-time interview program and then savaged them with personal and vulgar questions. Salentine thought Cassandra Chutt the rudest person he had ever known in the broadcasting business.

Salentine invited her to dinner in his apartment. He enjoyed the company of rude people.

When Cassandra arrived the next evening, Salentine was editing a videotape. He brought her to his workroom, which had the latest equipment in videos and TV and monitoring and cutting machines, all accompanied by small computers.

Cassandra sat on a stool and said, “Oh shit, Lawrence, do I have to watch you make your cut of
Gone with the Wind
again?” By way of answer he brought her a drink from the small bar in a corner of the room.

Salentine had a hobby. He would take a videotape of a movie (he had a collection of what he thought were the one
hundred best movies ever made) and recut it to make it better. Even in his most favorite movies there would be a scene or dialogue that he thought not well done or unnecessary, and he would remove it with editing machines. Now arrayed in the bookcase of his living room were one hundred videotapes of the best motion pictures, somewhat shorter, but perfect. There were even some movies that had their unsatisfactory endings chopped off.

While he and Cassandra Chutt ate the dinner served by a butler, they talked about her future programs. This always put Cassandra Chutt in a good mood. She told Salentine of her plans to visit the heads of the Arab states and bring them together on one program, with the president of Israel. Then a program with three European prime ministers chatting with her. And then she was exuberant about going to Japan to interview the Emperor. Salentine listened patiently. Cassandra Chutt had delusions of grandeur but every once in a while she came up with a stunning coup.

Finally he interrupted her and said jokingly, “Why don’t you get President Kennedy on your program?”

Cassandra Chutt lost her good humor. “He’ll never give me a break after what we did to him.”

“It didn’t turn out so well,” Salentine said. “But if you can’t get Kennedy, then why not go to the other side of the fence? Why not get Congressman Jintz and Senator Lambertino to give their side of the story?”

Cassandra Chutt was smiling at him. “You sneaky bastard,” she said. “They lost. They are losers and Kennedy is going to slaughter them in the elections. Why should I have losers on my program. Who the hell wants to watch losers on TV?”

Salentine said, “Jintz tells me they have very important information on the atom bomb explosion, that maybe the
administration dragged its heels. That they didn’t utilize properly the nuclear search teams, which might have located the bomb before it exploded. And they will say that on your program. You’ll make headlines all over the world.”

Cassandra Chutt was stunned. Then she started to laugh. “Oh, Christ,” she said. “This is terrible, but right after you said that, the question, the very next question I thought to ask those two losers, was this: ‘Do you honestly think the President of the United States is responsible for the ten thousand deaths in the explosion of the nuclear bomb in New York?’ ”

“That’s a very good question,” Salentine said.

In the month of June, Bert Audick traveled on his private plane to Sherhaben to discuss with the Sultan the rebuilding of Dak. The Sultan entertained him royally. There were dancing girls, fine food, and a consortium of international financiers the Sultan had assembled who would be willing to invest their money in a new Dak. Audick spent a wonderful week of hard work picking their pockets for a hundred-million-dollar “unit” here and a “unit” there, but the real money would have to come from his own oil firm and the Sultan of Sherhaben.

On the final night of his stay he and the Sultan were alone together in the Sultan’s palace. At the end of the meal the Sultan banished the servants and bodyguards from the room.

He smiled at Audick and said, “I think now we should get down to our real business.” He paused for a moment. “Did you bring what I requested?”

Bert Audick said, “I want you to understand one thing. I am not acting against my country. I just have to get rid of that Kennedy bastard or I’ll wind up in jail. And he’s going
to track down all the ins and outs of our dealings over the past ten years. So what I am doing is very much in your interest.”

“I understand,” the Sultan said gently. “And we are far removed from the events that will happen. Have you made sure the documents cannot be traced to you in any way?”

Bert Audick said, “Of course.” He then handed over the leather briefcase beside him. The Sultan took it and drew out a file that contained photographs and diagrams.

The Sultan looked at them. They were photos of the White House interiors, and the diagrams showed the control posts in different parts of the building. “Are these up to date?” the Sultan asked.

“No,” Bert Audick said. “After Kennedy took office three years ago, Christian Klee, who’s head of the FBI and the Secret Service, changed a lot of it around. He added another floor to the White House for the presidential residence. I know that the fourth floor is like a steel box. Nobody knows what the setup is. Nothing is ever published, and they sure as hell don’t let people know. It’s all secret except to the President’s closest advisers and friends.”

“This can help,” the Sultan said.

Audick shrugged. “I can help with money. We need fast action, preferably before Kennedy gets reelected.”

“The Hundred can always use the money,” the Sultan said. “I’ll see that it gets to them. But you must understand that these people act out of their own true faith. They are not hired assassins. So they will have to believe the money comes from me as head of an oppressed small country.” He smiled. “After the destruction of Dak, I believe Sherhaben qualifies.”

Audick said, “That’s another matter I’ve come to discuss.
My company lost fifty billion dollars when Dak was destroyed. I think we should restructure the deal we have on your oil. You were pretty rough last time.”

The Sultan laughed but in a friendly way. “Mr. Audick,” he said, “for over fifty years the American and British oil companies raped the Arab lands of their oil. You gave ignorant nomad sheiks pennies while you made billions. Really it was shameful. And now your countrymen get indignant when we want to charge what the oil is worth. As if we had anything to say about the price of your heavy equipment and your technological skills for which you charge so dearly. But now it is your turn to pay properly, it is your turn even to be exploited if you care to make such a claim. Please don’t be offended, but I was even thinking of asking you to sweeten our deal.”

They recognized in each other a kindred soul who never missed the chance to pursue a negotiation. They smiled at each other in a friendly fashion.

“I guess the American consumer will have to pick up the bill for the crazy President they voted into office,” Audick said. “I sure hate to do it to them.”

“But you will,” the Sultan said. “You are a businessman, after all, not a politician.”

“On my way to being a jailbird,” Audick said with a laugh. “Unless I get lucky and Kennedy disappears. I don’t want you to misunderstand me. I would do anything for my country, but I sure as hell won’t let the politicians push me around.”

The Sultan smiled in agreement. “No more than I would let my parliament.” He clapped his hands for servants and then he said to Audick, “Now I think it is time for us to enjoy ourselves. Enough of this dirty business of rule and power. Let us live life while we still have it.”

Soon they were sitting down to an elaborate dinner. Audick enjoyed Arab food, he was not squeamish like other Americans; the heads and eyeballs of sheep were mother’s milk to him.

As they were eating, Audick said to the Sultan, “If you need money for some worthy cause, I can arrange for its transfer from an untraceable source on my end. It is very important to me that we do something about Kennedy.”

“I understand completely,” the Sultan said. “And now, no more talk of business. I have a duty as your host.”

Annee, who had been hiding out with her family in Sicily, was surprised when she was summoned to a meeting with fellow members of the Hundred.

She met with them in Palermo. They were two young men she had known when they were all university students in Rome. The oldest, now about thirty years of age, she had always liked very much. He was tall, but stooped, and wore gold-rimmed glasses. He had been a brilliant scholar, destined for a distinguished career as a professor of Etruscan studies. In personal relationships he was gentle and kind. His political violence sprang from a mind that detested the cruel illogic of a capitalistic society. His name was Giancarlo.

The other member of the First Hundred she knew as the firebrand of leftist parties at the university. A loudmouth, but a brilliant orator who enjoyed spurring crowds to violence though he himself was essentially inept in action. His character changed after he was picked up by the antiterrorist special police and severely interrogated. In other words, Annee thought, they had kicked the shit out of him and put him in the hospital for a month. Sallu, for that was his name, then talked less and acted more. Finally he was recognized as one of the Christs of Violence, one of the First Hundred.

Both of these men, Giancarlo and Sallu, now lived underground to elude the antiterrorist police. And they had arranged this meeting with care. Annee had been summoned to the town of Palermo and instructed to wander and sight-see until she was contacted. On the second day she had encountered a woman named Livia in a boutique who had taken her to a meeting in a small restaurant where they were the only customers. The restaurant had then closed its doors to the public; the proprietors and the single waiter were obviously members of the cadre. Then Giancarlo and Sallu had emerged from the kitchen. Giancarlo was in chef’s regalia and his eyes were twinkling with amusement. In his hands was a huge bowl of spaghetti dyed black with the ink of chopped squid. Sallu, behind him, carried a wooden basket filled with sesame-seeded golden bread and a bottle of wine.