Читать книгу Death Card - Nick L. Sacco - Страница 8

Chapter 2

Maggie Kerr was struggling with mixed emotions as she steered her yellow Jeep Wrangler toward the White House. As an ambitious young reporter, she was eager, yet hesitant, to attend this press conference. She felt this assignment might be just what she needed to move up at the Washington Post, where she had been working for nearly five years. During this press conference, Maggie hoped she might get a seat close to the front, among the other media big shots. She imagined the scenario now: The speaker, spotting her raised hand in the sea of other reporters, would motion for her to rise. Uncrossing her shapely legs to stand in her four-inch heels, she would toss her long red hair over one shoulder. Her green eyes smoldering, with notebook clutched to her ample bosom, she would shout a question so significant, so life-altering, that it would be repeated on every news outlet for weeks to come. Maggie had rehearsed it a hundred times...in her mind. In reality, a more experienced reporter would beat her to the punch. Maggie suspected the speaker would be a listless government drone, holding the mundane title of Assistant to the Assistant for the Department of Mad Cow Research.

As Maggie drove down Connecticut Avenue, she thought back to the text she had received earlier in the evening from her assignment editor. The recognizable sound of the Darth Vader theme song tipped Maggie off that her boss was sending her a message.

Duty calls. Press conference 10 p.m.

WHITE HOUSE. DON’T BE LATE.

Anything good? Write it up and e-mail it to the news desk ASAP.

Maggie had been looking forward to curling up on the couch with her favorite guy, Puma, a six-year old Calico she had rescued as a kitten, a big bowl of popcorn, and two hours of her favorite home makeover show.

Now, nearly ten o’clock, she drove through the dark along Independence Avenue. She felt jittery and anxious. It seemed strange to be summoned to a press conference at such a late hour. The traffic seemed about as normal as any Washington evening. Suddenly, Maggie spotted a motorcycle cop pulling into the upcoming intersection, his red strobe lights flashing. Though she had the green light, the officer raised his arm ordering her to stop.

Maggie peered out her windows, but didn’t see an accident or a DUI checkpoint. For a second, she considered flashing her press credentials and mentioning something about being late for an important mad cow news conference. Maybe she would undo a couple of buttons on her blouse and thrust her chest forward at the cop. She would say, “Officer, these babies have an appointment at the White House.” Her humorous thoughts vanished quickly when a convoy of military trucks, Humvees, and armored vehicles suddenly barreled through the intersection just feet from her car. Maggie could see soldiers in full battle gear. She noticed that nearly every vehicle had a staffed, menacing-looking machine gun on top of it.

“The boys sure are playing army late tonight,” Maggie thought to herself. A shrill whistle sounded. Maggie looked up to see the motorcycle cop waving rapidly at her to keep moving. She hit the gas and gave a small wave at the police officer as she passed. He ignored her and didn’t wave back.

As she neared the Capitol, she noticed police officers in reflective vests and more soldiers in their fatigues busily setting up barricades. It must be another political protest following the recent presidential election and the authorities were getting prepared, Maggie thought to herself. For the past several months, protests had grown more frequent and violent. A dozen different antigovernment groups, including the Tea Party, had been demanding everything from changes in policy to the removal of President Marcus Barakat. As more factories and businesses closed, the unemployed swelled the ranks of the protesting crowds. There had been bloody clashes with Washington police and mass arrests. One famous evening news anchor said the current protests seemed like a combination of the 1968 Democratic riots in Chicago and the World Trade Organization riots in Seattle. Now, as the oath of office neared, violent clashes were erupting all across the nation.

Two blocks from the Capitol, Maggie was stopped at her first checkpoint. An armed man dressed in all-black battle dress utilities leaned into her window. “National Security Force” was stitched over his left pocket. In a firm voice, he ordered Maggie to turn off her radio and asked for her press credentials. He then vanished into a nearby military-style tent while two other NSF agents holding rifles and sidearms stood staring intently at her car. Quite suddenly, Maggie felt extremely uncomfortable. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was definitely wrong with this situation. She self-consciously ran her fingers over the buttons of her blouse making sure nothing was exposed. She continued to wait, getting more nervous as time went by, feeling like she might have diarrhea or even throw up, as the NSF agents continued to stare at her. Finally, the first man reappeared from the tent. He pointed a finger down the street. “Do you see those lights?” Maggie turned her head and saw a scene of flashing light bars and flickering road flares further down the street. Maggie thought it looked like a ten-car pileup accident scene.

“Drive toward those flashing lights and park where you are directed,” he ordered, stepping away from her car.

“Mad cow disease? Bullshit! I was definitely dreaming when I thought that,” Maggie whispered to herself, shifting the car into gear and driving toward the chaos ahead.

A block down the street a pattern of burning road flares on the ground forced Maggie into a single lane. She wondered how many people had suffered convulsions or migraines from the flashing strobe lights as she slowed her car to a crawl. Finally, a soldier waving two orange-coned flashlights similar to someone directing an airplane to the gate, guided her toward a line of parked cars. To Maggie it seemed like a bizarre street carnival. Glancing around, she realized that all the streets near the White House were barricaded and filled with military, police, and the black-clad NSF troops. Immediately after lowering herself down from the driver’s side of her Jeep, a soldier directed her toward an immense green military tent erected in the street outside the fence that surrounded the White House. A line of people were snaking their way toward the tent entrance, a cordon of armed troops on either side. She began to recognize faces from the various media organizations like CNN, NBC, FOX and ABC.

As she got in line Maggie looked up ahead and saw it was barely moving. A reporter she recognized from another network was in a heated argument with two men in dark business suits. The reporter was demanding to find out why no electronic devices or cameras were allowed in the press conference. He wasn’t getting an answer. In response, the two men shoved past him, seized his camera equipment, and added it to a stack of others.

As the line began to slowly shuffle forward, Maggie could feel a tension building in the air. She glanced over her shoulder at the reporter who was now screaming in protest, as his camera operator stood silent with a confused look on his face. “Since when are cameras not allowed in a press conference?” Maggie asked herself.

The tent was huge and dark, not like any press conference she had attended in the past. She could barely see. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she noticed the room was filled with rows of folding chairs, and a small podium stood on a stage at the front of the tent. Behind it hung a huge smiling image of President Marcus Barakat. The first three rows of seats were already filling up with reporters. As she looked around, a hand suddenly grabbed her elbow. Maggie, who had attended a self-defense class, jerked her arm away and began to assume a defensive position. Looking up, she recognized her assailant as Charlie Ashman. Charlie was Maggie’s close friend, who worked as a political events blogger. Maggie smiled and gave Charlie a big hug.

“I almost kicked you in the nuts, dude,” Maggie said with a laugh. “Never sneak up on me.”

“I was just trying to get your attention before you sat down with some other good looking guy.”

“What the hell are we doing here, Maggie? We should be playing darts and drinking beer,” Charlie said, flashing a flawless smile and a playful wink. Maggie liked Charlie . . . and the way he looked. He was a “man’s man.” He had dark hair, cut in a short military fashion. A “battle cut,” he once said it was called. He wore khaki colored cargo pants that had more pockets than Maggie could count and a blue denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up so high she could see the Army Ranger tattoo on his muscular bicep.

Charlie was an incredible writer who preferred the freedom of working for himself. His freelance articles were engaging to his large audience and backed by some wealthy advertisers. Charlie had built himself a good relationship with the Washington media. He and Maggie, while not officially dating, spent many hours at their favorite bar or coffee shop. They could talk about anything from the most mundane topic to items of great seriousness.

“Follow me,” Charlie said to Maggie, taking her hand and leading them to a pair of seats at the end of a row. They were close to, yet just behind, the big-name media faces who occupied the area of importance within throwing range of the podium. Charlie looked toward the front row and then turned and gave Maggie a comical, pouty face. He began to march in his chair, swinging his arms and raising and lowering his feet. “I want to sit up front and be a macher,” he said, using a Yiddish term for a big shot or someone of importance. Maggie laughed whenever Charlie said something in Yiddish, even though she understood very little of it herself. At one point in Charlie’s life, he had been dating a beautiful Jewish woman whose strict Orthodox father hated any guy his daughter brought home, especially goys, or non-Jewish men. So, to win his approval, Charlie came up with a plan. For two weeks he had studied the Yiddish language, memorizing hundreds of the old Jewish words. Finally, ready and confident, Charlie launched his stunt at the height of a Shabbat dinner at the house of his girlfriend’s parents. “I just love shtuping with your daughter,” Charlie said smiling from one parent to another. Charlie would later relate that the first sign of trouble was the sudden silence that seized the room. Slowly raising his eyes from his plate, a fork full of food balanced at his open mouth, Charlie realized that both parents and a younger brother were staring at him as though lobsters were suddenly crawling out of his head. For a moment, Charlie had considered slicing his wrists with the butter knife, but he didn’t want to ruin the beautiful white lace tablecloth. Dinner was cut short, and Charlie did not get to enjoy the mother’s wonderful challah bread. He was personally escorted to the door by the father, who offered up some new Yiddish words for Charlie.

“You’re a schlemiel and a nudnik. Now you go look those words up, mister smart ass,” the father said, glaring and slamming the door in Charlie’s face. The following day Charlie received an angry phone call from his now ex-girlfriend demanding to know why he had so proudly told her parents he liked screwing their daughter. A quick check of his Yiddish dictionary revealed that Charlie had mistakenly used the word for sex when he meant to say shmooze, or to talk or chat. Charlie Ashman’s attempt at speaking the Yiddish language to impress the girlfriend’s father had ended in disaster.

Charlie stopped his mimicking and leaned close to Maggie. “Something’s going on here, Maggie,” he whispered quietly to her. “Just before I left home, I got a phone call from Sarah Palmer. Her husband, Andy, is the managing editor at CNBC. Some government-looking guys in a black SUV showed up and demanded he go with them. They said he was needed at some important meeting, but wouldn’t say anything else. They just took him and left. Then on my drive over here, I get a text message from someone I know at FOX. Same story about his boss being summoned to a private audience. Now we’re here. I don’t know what’s up, but I have a bad feeling.”

Maggie began to respond when a rustling of movement brought everyone’s attention to the front. Four men in suits and sporting earpieces had come into the tent. To Maggie, they looked like Secret Service agents on steroids. With their arms at their sides, they stood in a line, their eyes darting over everyone in the audience. Charlie squeezed Maggie’s hand and nodded his head, indicating she should look behind them. Slowly and calmly, Maggie glanced over her shoulder and spotted a half dozen dark-suited men standing at the rear of the tent. As Maggie began to whisper into Charlie’s ear, a woman stepped onto the stage.

Maggie recognized her from television. She held some minor role in President Barakat’s cabinet. Small in stature, wearing a red pantsuit with matching pumps, her face shining with perfect makeup, she looked like the epitome of a female politician. With her close-cropped brown hair and big eyes, she flashed a thin-lipped smile at the audience.

Maggie had never attended a press conference where the speaker held no notes or flash cards. This woman was completely empty-handed.

“Evening, y’all. My name is Donna Koontz,” she said with a thick, southern drawl. Leaning against the podium, she looked out over the audience of media people. “I’m the new press secretary for President Marcus Barakat. I’ll just jump right to the point of why y’all are here tonight. The president and his staff feel that all the recent nationwide discontent has impeded the progress of the goals the president has made for the American people. So, effective immediately, there’s gonna be a whole bunch of important and profound changes. Guess what?” she said, spreading her arms out wide like a TV evangelist and smiled. “It all begins right now.”

Immediately, an aide handed Koontz a thick, red-covered booklet. She held it high over her head and shook it for everyone to see. “From now on, the government’s gonna begin directing all the daily operations of the media. Newspapers, television, radio, even you bloggers,” she added, singling out those like Charlie.

“This is your new Bible,” she said, holding the book like a model displaying a new product. “It tells you how to write and report anything and everything. You will adhere to it . . . religiously,” she emphasized, dropping the book on the top of the podium with a thump. “It’s real simple, folks. Follow it to the letter of the law, just like you would your own personal Bible, don’t deviate from any of the rules, and we’ll all get along wonderfully,” Koontz said with a fake laugh.

“Many of you in the media have reported the news in a positive way toward President Barakat and his administration this last term,” she continued. “However, others of you have tried to slant the news reports against President Barakat. Any negative news reporting will STOP immediately.” Maggie and Charlie turned and stared at one another in openmouthed shock. Before either could say a word, a loud voice brought their attention back toward the podium. It was Associated Press reporter Phillip Elliott. He stood up to address the new press secretary.

“Ms. Koontz,” Elliott said, “are we to understand that the White House is going to begin dictating and censoring the content of the news?” A chorus of voices could be heard around the room. Other reporters started shouting questions and raising their hands. Koontz began motioning for everyone to quiet down. She turned her attention back to Elliott.

“I think I speak for everyone here,” he said, waving an arm above the murmuring crowd. “This is a complete violation of the First Amendment to the Constitution. Since when does the government of the United States decide it’s going to change one of our most basic and important freedoms?”

Elliott crossed his hands in front of him, calmly awaiting a response. A chilled silence fell over the room as the other reporters waited for an answer.

Donna Koontz let out a deep sigh of frustration. “Since right now,” she snapped back with anger. Turning to one of the black-suited men behind her, she shrugged her head toward Elliott. The man hopped off the stage and crossed the distance to the still-standing reporter in less than two seconds. As the other reporters watched in horror, the black suited man pulled a handgun from his concealed shoulder holster, and in one swift, practiced motion, raised his arm and blasted a nine-millimeter bullet into the forehead of Phillip Elliott.

The discharge of the gun in the small space of the tent sounded as though a cannon had been fired. There was a surreal moment of time as Maggie watched Elliott’s head jerk backward violently before his body crumpled to the floor.

Some of the reporters who had served as combat correspondents in danger zones immediately took cover. Others jumped from their seats and tried to flee, but the exits were already blocked by the dark-suited men.

“Get down,” Charlie yelled, dragging Maggie below the seats beside him as the room erupted into cries and screams. He held a protective arm across her shoulders as Maggie’s mind tried to comprehend the violence she had just witnessed.

“GET BACK IN YOUR SEATS!” the men in black suits began ordering the terrified reporters. Charlie looked around cautiously before taking his seat and then guiding Maggie up beside him.

The acid stench of gunpowder filled the air. All the seats around the dead body of Phillip Elliot had emptied. A cloud of blue smoke lazily floated above the room. One of the black suits began wrestling away a cell phone from a tall thin woman who was trying to record a video of the carnage.

“Quiet, please. Quiet, please,” Donna Koontz, said, as if directing a class of second-graders. “Please take your seats. Anyone else who attempts to take any cell phone pictures or video will be arrested,” she said, leaning across the podium.

Calmly, and, as if unaffected by what had just happened, Koontz moved in front of the podium to tower above the crowd of terrified press officials.

“This ain’t your daddy’s government anymore,” she said sternly, her dark eyes taking in everyone in the audience. “The old ways, well, they just aren’t working anymore, so the President, his staff, and the American people are going in a new direction. The president wants everyone to jump on board and help him build a new nation,” Koontz said cheerfully with a forced, toothy smile.

“However,” she continued, arms now crossed, the smile gone and an air of foreboding in her voice, “do not underestimate the determination of our president and his new staff to reach our goals and lead our nation toward a new future. Dissension will not be tolerated and that’s the truth,” Koontz snapped.

She turned and began to walk toward the curtain of the tent when she suddenly stopped and turned back, as if just remembering something. “I’m sorry, y’all, but in the excitement, I failed to tell you that all electronic communications – you know, cell, telephone, television, and Internet – are suspended for 48 hours. It’s what y’all might call a news blackout. Tomorrow at noon the president is gonna address the nation. Don’t miss it. Trust me, it’s gonna be exciting! Don’t forget your new guidelines,” she said, pointing to a pile of the red-covered books on the stage. “You’re gonna need ‘em.”

A small-statured, wimpish man met Koontz as she strode out of the tent. “Ms. Koontz,” her aide said, shaking, “what about . . . you know . . . him.” He nodded the way she had come, to where Elliott’s body lay.

Koontz stopped to adjust an earring before answering, “Send flowers to Mrs. Elliot,” she said, smoothing the front of her jacket. “Then have her killed, too,” she replied coldly.

As if on cue, four of the black suits surrounded the press secretary, and the group began to walk away together.

“But, Ms. Koontz,” the aide stuttered loudly, pointing toward the tent. “How do we handle . . . him?”

Without breaking stride, Koontz yelled over her shoulder, “They’re called landfills, Andrew,” and continued walking, leaving her assistant behind.

Maggie was in complete shock. Shaking and fighting off panic, she turned to Charlie in disbelief. As she looked up into his eyes, she saw that his face was a mask of fear and confusion. “Oh my God, Maggie. Let’s get out of here, NOW!” he said, pulling her close for a second, and then turning to leave.