The Newsmakers (13 page)
She tries the soup; it sets off a series of sequential taste explosions in her mouthârich, deep artichoke cut with a whisper of citrus tang and fruity sweetness, giving way to creamy sour-cream comfort and finally the intense burst of the salty fish eggs. She can hardly believe that there are people who eatâand liveâlike this every day. And they're welcoming her into their world.
At one point Erica looks over at Nylan and catches him watching her intently. She's quiet during the rest of the meal, marveling at the revelatory flavors and listening to the others talk about their plans for the network. She notices that Nylan speaks the least. He listens like a hawk, his eyes flashing with that restless intelligence, but he seems to be conserving his energy. This flight, after all, is celebratory; there are no battles being foughtâhe saves his firepower for when he needs it. Erica suspects there's a lesson to be learned there.
Dessert is a raspberry, cashew, meringue napoleonârich and light and fruity all at once. It's cleared, coffee orders are taken, and then, suddenly, a beautiful little box made of polished teak appears in front of Erica.
“What's this?”
“Open it,” Nylan says.
She lifts off the lid and looks inside. There sits a crystal orb the size of a baseball. She gently lifts it out. It's a globe, etched with a map of the world. The GNN logo is inscribed over the North Pole. Suspended inside the globe is a mint silver dollar.
“It's exquisite,” Erica says. Everyone else at the table nods in agreement.
“It's Lalique. Nylan only gives out one or two a year,” Fred Wilmot says.
Erica holds it up and examines it. She can make out the date on the silver dollar: 1978.
“That coin was struck the year Nylan Hastings was born,” Wilmot solemnly states.
There's a render-unto-Nylan moment of silence at the table. The hushed devotion is a little too much for Erica. Her enjoyment and pride at the gift gives way to a feeling that's less pleasant. The globe is just so self-reverential and solipsistic. It's creepy. She and Greg exchange a glanceâdoes he feel the same way?
The plane hits a sudden wall of turbulence. Without thinking, Erica's hand goes to Greg's thigh under the table. Then his hand is on top of hers. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. She should pull away. Shouldn't she? She looks at the globe. She's queen of the world at thirty thousand feet.
She leaves her hand on Greg's thigh. And as for the turbulence? Bring it on.
ERICA SITS IN HER NEW
office, which has a seating area, a view of Central Park, and a large closet. It's two days after her return from Los Angeles. She paid a quick visit to Mark Benton yesterday, and he reported that the cyberterrorists are highly skilledâhe's finding it close to impossible to track their whereabouts. He also reiterated the possibility that the terrorists have detected
him
. And the danger that holds for both of them. They agree that they shouldn't be seen together in the office anymore. From now on they'll arrange outside meetings that appear serendipitous.
Erica is preparing for the first development meeting on her show, which has a tentative timeline to go live in two months. There's so much to do: big things like hiring a director, writers, and other staff; designing the set; coming up with a basic format and recurring segments; and a thousand details large and small, like the show's music and lining up go-to experts on a host of issues. Erica is determined to avoid ideologyâis there anything more annoying and less elucidating than two ideologues from opposite sides of the spectrum yelling over each other? She wants to keep the focus on the facts, and she wants to mix in some aspirational, inspirational, and even spiritual segments.
And some pop culture to provide pure entertainmentâand a ratings boost.
Greg strides into her office. “ISIL has just claimed credit for the Staten Island ferry crash.”
Erica stands up. “So it
is
terrorism. And ISIL no less. Do they have that kind of capability?”
“Apparently. They've been recruiting globallyâyoung people with tech skills. They're threatening another cyberstrike against the US. The president is going to speak in fifteen minutes. We need you on-air in ninety seconds.”
“I thought the ferry crash was Claire Wilcox's story now.”
“
Was
is the operative word in that sentence.”
Erica races down the hall toward the studio.
ERICA LOOKS INTO THE CAMERA
and begins: “We have breaking news: The Middle East caliphate ISIL has claimed credit for the crash of the Staten Island ferry on the morning of April 13. The crash claimed five lives and injured eighty people, two dozen of them critically. Ten remain hospitalized. ISIL claims that it hacked into the ferry's computer system and froze its steering mechanism. If true, this is the first major act of cyberterrorism committed on American soil. President Garner will be speaking to the nation ten minutes from now.”
GNN runs the footage of the crash and Erica interviews, by remote feed, one of the nation's leading experts on cyberterrorism. Then they go to the White House feed. President Garner is grave, strong, and succinct: this evil act will be punished. He tells the nation that the Department of Homeland Security's cyberterrorism division is working to determine the location of ISIL's technology infrastructure. When it does, appropriate action will be taken.
After the president's remarks, Erica is on-air for the next six hours, anchoring GNN's coverage of the unfolding story. This is the first time she's been on for this long, anchoring a story this big. Her adrenaline reaches a high level and plateausâshe's on her game, cruising along.
Greg is right with her the whole time. Once the initial story is reported and the footage of the crash shown, it becomes a challenge to fill the airtime. Greg rounds up senators from both parties in Washington, the mayor of New York City, GNN's chief Middle East correspondent in Damascus, a survivor of the crash, a cybersecurity expert who explains how cyberterrorism works, and a general with expertise in the field.
Erica knows from her years of experience in Boston that it's a gamble to pull people in at the last minute, especially those with limited media experience. Some folks freeze, others are staggeringly inarticulate, others stray off topic. That's where the art and craft of her job comes inâErica's goal is to get people to give relevant, timely, insightful answers. In some ways she loves the tough guests the bestâthey force her to up her game. She has to size them up in seconds, try to connect, and then draw them out in the right direction. She has the opposite problem with several of the network's regular political commentators, whom she finds to be self-important, with little original insight, imagination, or wit. The main challenge with these gasbags is getting them to shut up.
One of Erica's most important interviews is with Allen Menkin, a former NSA official who now works for a private intelligence contractor.
“Mr. Menkin, how do we know ISIL's claim of crashing the ferry is the truth and not just an opportunistic ploy? After all, it makes them a hero to Muslim extremists around the world, generates fear here in the United States, and no doubt helps with recruiting.”
“That's a crucial question,” Menkin answers. “My sources inside the intelligence community assure me the government has third-party confirmation that the hacking originated from a location in ISIL-controlled territory in Syria. Without such information I highly doubt the president would have addressed the nation.”
Erica finally turns over the reins at eight p.m.âto Claire Wilcox, no less. The two share a split-screen handoff in which Claire, after thanking Erica for the good work, says, “You look
exhausted
, my friend. Get some rest.” Erica takes the high road, advising viewers
to stay tuned for “Claire Wilcox's hard-hitting reporting and always intriguing insights.” Claire looks momentarily shocked by her rival's magnanimity. Poor Claire, she's had a rough week. There's no Lalique crystal globe sitting on her desk.
Erica decompresses in her office, kicking off her flats and massaging her feet, checking her e-mails, and sipping a cup of green tea. Greg appears in her doorway. She motions him in. He closes the door behind him.
“If the hacking came from ISIL in Syria, I guess it makes your source a moot point,” he says.
“Which is something of a relief.”
“It's out of our hands.”
“You did an amazing job today, Greg. You just kept those guests coming. Although I do think it's time to send Senator Ferguson out to pasture. He's an angry old man who hasn't had an original thought since Reagan was in the White House.”
“He's a media whoreâturn on a camera and there he is. They thrive in the native climate down there in DC.”
“Swamp creatures.”
The two share an easy laugh. The laugh feels so goodârelease from the intensity of the day. They're silent for a moment, both realizing how strong and instinctive their bond has become. Their relationship has passed through another crucible. They worked together seamlessly for hoursâin a pressure-cooker environmentâanticipating each other's needs, confident in each other's ability. She's never had a work experience that went quite so smoothly.
“How about I walk you home?” Greg asks.
“Sounds good to me.”
IT
'
S A CLOUDY, HUMID NEW
York night as Erica and Greg walk up toward Fifty-Seventh Streetârain seems imminent. She remembers the last time Greg walked her home. It was just a month ago, but it feels like a lifetimeâand she feels like she was a different person then. Green. Untested. At the bottom of the pyramid. Now she's at the top and the dynamic between Greg and her has flipped. Which he seems to have no problem dealing with. One thing she's loved about him from day one is his lack of overweening male egoâso many men she's worked with feel the need to always be right and in control. And to make sure the women around them know it. Greg is the very oppositeâhe seems close to gender-blind.
“I love you!” a woman screams, rushing up to Erica.
Erica recoils, stepping backward. She does a quick scan: middle-aged, clean, looks sane.
“You were so amazing with Kay BarrishâI cry every time I watch it. And today, with the terrorism story, you
care
, you really care.”
“Thank you,” Erica manages.
“I can't believe I just met you. My husband isn't going to believe this.
I love you!
” The woman retreats, pulling out her phone.
Erica has never experienced anything like that. Sure, she's been recognized, but this wasn't recognition, it was adulation. How can that woman
love
her, when she doesn't even know her? Talk about power. It's strange, and she feels a combination of exhilarated and wary. She's entered a brave new world, one in which privacy and boundaries are erased.
“Welcome to Xanadu,” Greg says with a smile.
Erica slips her arm through hisâshe can feel his lean muscle. Then it starts to rain, just a few steady drops at first and then a clap of thunder and a downpour. Greg whips off his jacket and holds it over her as they duck, laughing, into a nearby doorway. They huddle, their bodies pressed together, as all around them the city scurries for cover. Erica's hair is dripping and Greg's shirt is soaked.
“I guess there are times in life when all you want is an umbrella,” he says.
There's another thunderclap and the wind picks up. Erica blinks to clear the rain from her eyes.
“Greg?”
“Yes?”
“I'm going to kiss you now.”
And she does.
ERICA FLOATS INTO HER APARTMENT
on the trail of the kiss. She feels light and electric and alive, so alive. In the bedroom she takes off her clothes and slips into a robe. She walks into the bathroom, grabs a towel, and dries her hair. She looks at herself in the mirror and smilesâ
It's happening, Erica, it's really happening
.
Her phone rings. Who could that be? Greg wishing her good night?
“Erica, it's Mark.” He sounds agitated.
“I guess our work is done.”
“Not exactly. I never take authority at its word, so when the ISIL news broke today, I kept working.”
“And?”
“I've uncovered something. Something important.”
It takes Erica a moment to switch gears, to accept the news. The kiss fades to a distant memory as she slots into work mode. “What is it?”
“Erica, as we discussed, the deeper I get into this, the more chance there is that the terrorists will sniff me out. Which puts me in serious danger. And by extension, you. We have to be more careful. I'm
calling you from a prepaid phone. Buy one yourself. We'll use them for all future communications. Meet me at six tomorrow morning at the Starbucks at Fifty-Second and Eighth.”
“I'll be there.”
“And, Erica, don't tell anyone about this call.
Anyone
.”
Erica hangs up, reaches into her bag for her playing cards, sits on the couch, and deals a hand of solitaire on the coffee table. What could Mark have uncovered? And why is he suddenly so worried about their safety? Just when she thought that the ferry story was out of her hands, she's suddenly back in the mix. Neck deep.
She tosses down the cards and stands up, looks out the windowâthe rain is over, the streets are crowded again, but now the city looks hard-edged, unrelenting, overwhelming. Who knows who is out there, and what their motives are? She draws the curtains as a wave of fear sweeps over her. She begins to pace with one thought in her mind: a drink.
