Читать книгу Himmler's Island - Richard G. Buchanan PhD - Страница 3

CLAIRE JAMES, a CNN Junior Reporter walked into her Manager’s office. Framed television programming awards the Network and the Manager had received appeared on the “Ego” wall behind him, and his desk had the usual files, notepads and a pen-and pencil cup. He beckoned Claire to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk, and then said;

“I’ll come right to the point: For some reason, the brass has chosen you to go to a special Caribbean resort for a week to observe and then to report on it.”

Claire replied; “Thank you. What will I need? A video camera, a digital camera, a voice recorder, tickets, a passport and an advance?”

The Manager interrupted; “I’ve been told to tell you to take nothing but a week’s worth of casual resort clothes to enjoy your time. Then just come back and give your impressions in a report.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Pack your clothes and be ready to be picked up at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon.”

At about 3:00 PM on Saturday Claire answered the apartment’s intercom buzzer;

“Yes?”

The doorman’s voice said; “Ms. James? Your limo is here.”

The noise of the opening of the elevator door caused the relatively new day doorman to look up from his desk. He saw Claire James, a striking honey blonde with shoulder-length hair as he had never seen her before. Previously he’d either seen her dressed in the demure suits her station required female reporters to wear, or lumpy sweatshirts and jeans on the weekends. She strode out of the elevator towing a suitcase wearing a form fitting sleeveless blouse and equally form fitting mid-thigh shorts, walking in heeled sandals, enjoying the doorman’s look.

She breezed past his desk on her way across the apartment house lobby, out of its door and across the sidewalk toward the waiting car. It wasn’t a limousine, but it was a gleaming black Town Car.

The lolling driver looked up quickly when he saw Claire. She appreciated his rapt attention without letting him know she was aware of it. He opened the door saying; “Good afternoon Ms. James.”

Claire slid into the smooth leather seat as the driver put her suitcase into the Town Car’s trunk. He got into the driver’s seat, pulled away from the curb, but drove West. Claire had expected him to drive East or South.

“Aren’t we going to Kennedy?”

The driver answered; “We’re picking up another passenger ma’am.”

Claire sat back as the car went West to Central Park, through the park on one of its transverse roads, and then to a Westside apartment much like Claire’s, except there was a little circular driveway to the building’s entrance. After driving in, the driver turned to Claire saying; “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He got out, went into the building, spoke to the doorman, and then returned to the car, standing by it in the way Claire had first seen him. A few minutes later a woman emerged from the entrance, dressed much like Claire towing a similar suitcase. Unlike Claire, she had straight shoulder-length chestnut hair, fashionably center parted and a wide sensuous mouth. She slid into the seat next to Claire as the driver put her suitcase into the trunk.

She turned to Claire, extended her hand; then said; “Leslie Cummings.”

Claire took her hand and replied; “Pleased to meet you. . .Claire James.”

“Please to meet you Claire. . .” Leslie paused, looked over Claire in somewhat the same way as Claire’s doorman and their driver did which Claire noticed but chose to ignore. Leslie then said; “. . .you look familiar. Oh I know; you work for MSNBC.”

Claire replied; “Yes, and you look familiar too. You work for Fox.”

The driver had turned west, then when he reached 11^th Avenue, turned south.

Leslie said; “Bet he’s going to Liberty Newark; there’re international flights that leave from there too.” She paused then continued; “Claire, let’s put our heads together. We’re going, all expenses paid, to some special Caribbean resort. ”

Claire replied; “Yeah. That’s what my boss said.”

“More. Aren’t there a lot of Reporters in your station that have a lot more seniority than you do?”

“Sure. I’ve been working there for only a few months.”

“Me too. Did your boss tell you why you got picked for this assignment over the others with more seniority? ”

“No. . .”

“Wait. Did your boss say something like ‘Senior Management decided, I don’t know why?’”

“Yes.”

“So we got picked because we were new on the job.”

“OK. I’ll buy that; but why?”

Leslie thought for a while, and then said; “I have absolutely no idea. Now, were you also told that you didn’t need equipment, tickets or a passport? ”

“Yes. Can you figure out why?”

“I can’t.”

By that time the car had entered the Lincoln Tunnel going to New Jersey under the Hudson River so the darkness put a damper on their conversation. When the car exited the tunnel and climbed up the helix, the stunning view of Manhattan’s west side skyline continued to stifle the conversation. As the view disappeared behind rocks in the road’s cut, Claire said; “I guess you’re right. We’re going to Newark Liberty.”

But after traveling West for a while, the car continued in that direction past the southerly turnoff towards Newark Liberty Airport. The two reporters looked a bit puzzled so they began paying attention to where the driver was going. He continued for a while then turned north, which completely puzzled them both. The car continued until they saw a sign which said “Teterboro Airport Next Exit.” The driver reached under the dashboard, pulled out a microphone, keyed it, spoke a few words the reporters couldn’t hear, and then replaced the microphone.

Leslie piped up; “I know where we’re going! That’s an airport for Private Aviation.”

Claire said; “So that’s why we don’t need tickets.”

The driver left the highway, went up the exit hill, turned right, went a short distance to the airport entrance, and then to one of the terminal buildings. He stopped at the broad sidewalk outside the building. The two heard the car’s trunk pop open as they saw a uniformed man pulling a luggage cart towards the rear of the car. A young suited man opened the passenger door, and then extended his hand to help Claire and Leslie out of the car, saying; “Ms. James? Ms. Cummings? Come with me.”

With the uniformed man towing the cart now carrying two suitcases following them, the suited man led the reporters to the terminal’s double doors which opened automatically. They walked across the lobby to the single security search area which looked far less formidable than the ones at commercial airports. As the man approached the area, he reached into his jacket pocket for a small identification wallet, flashed it at one of the security agents who waved them around the luggage and personal search area to another set of automatic doors which opened onto the terminal’s apron. They went through those doors to the apron on which was a gleaming Cesna Citation V. Its drop-down stairs led to its open cabin door, and farther down the fuselage was an open baggage door just in front of one of the jet’s slowly spooling engines. The uniformed man towed the cart towards that door.

As the suited man and the reporters approached the plane, they saw a raven-haired woman with a café-au-lait skin wearing a sort of uniform standing at the top of the stairs. When they reached the bottom, the suited man waved the two up the stairs. As they ascended, he called out; “Have a nice flight!”

At the top of the stairs, the woman said; “Welcome aboard, I’m Jan, your flight attendant.”

The two entered the cabin, glancing to the left to see the two pilots doing nothing apparently waiting for them. The cabin was furnished luxuriously and tall enough for the two of them to walk erect. Just past the cabin door were two tables on each side of the center aisle with two large facing seats on each side. Jan beckoned them to sit in the two forward-facing seats: Claire took the right hand side; Leslie took the left. Both ran their hands over the creamy blond leather.

Jan said; “Please fasten your seat belts.” The two complied, and when they had, Jan asked; “Are you ready to go?”

Startled, the two looked at each other: they’d never been asked that before; then nodded.

Jan went to the cockpit door, said something to the pilots, closed it, then pressed a button which began the retraction of the stairs, and when that was completed, she closed the external cabin door. She latched the closed door, sat in her back-facing seat, cross-buckled herself in, and then knocked on the cockpit door. The engine noise increased as the plane began taxiing away from the apron to the taxiway alongside the runway, then down the taxiway to the end of the runway. It pulled onto the runway, turned to face its end, paused, began the take-off roll then took off.

When the plane leveled off and the engine noise diminished, a bell sounded, Jan unbuckled herself, walked to the galley at the rear of the cabin, then shortly emerged with two large wooden bowels heaped with a fruit salad, two sterling silver forks and cloth napkins. She gave a bowel, a fork and a napkin to each woman saying; “This was raised on where you are going. Enjoy.”

The two sampled the salads, then, almost in chorus said; “Delicious!”

Jan asked; Anything to drink?”

Leslie answered; “Can I have a diet Coke?”

Jan nodded

Claire said; “Me too.”

Jan served them the drinks they requested in large-stemmed glass snifters, not plastic tumblers. The two began to quietly eat and drink. When Leslie had finished most of her salad, she beckoned to Jan; “Are we going directly to the resort?

Jan replied; “No, we’re stopping at Atlanta to pick up some other passengers.”

“Hartsdale-Jackson?” said Leslie with a smirk trying to show her travel erudition.

“No. DeKalb-Peachtree.”

Claire asked; “What’s that?”

Jan replied; “The private airport serving the Atlanta area.”

Leslie tried to cover up her gaff by asking Claire; “Tell me about yourself.”

“No”

“C’mon!”

“Well, I was born in Willamette Illinois a suburb just on the north edge of Chicago, then I went to New Trier high school, a local high school, and then to Northwestern University. A real local girl.”

“How did you like Northwestern?”

“It’s a big ten school; lots of fraternities and sororities; and partying. . .”

“What was your major?

“Communications.”

“How did you get involved in broadcasting?”

“Northwestern had college radio and television facilities, mostly for its Engineering students, like some of my boyfriends, so I got involved but I went to the talent side. It produced shows broadcast locally on PBS. I worked on it, subscribed to Broadcasting, and then a few months ago I got the job at the MSNBC station in New York.”

“What do you do, mostly?”

“The station wanted, it still wants, to build up a Long Island audience, so, as a suburbanite I’ve been one of their Long Island suburban reporters, doing a lot of what I did on the Northwestern station—light local color stuff, but occasionally some fires and accidents.”

Jan interrupted to ask; “May I refresh your drinks?”

Both nodded

Claire took Jan’s interruption to say; “To paraphrase a line from lots of pictures, ‘Enough about me, what about you?’”

Leslie replied; “Touché. I was born and raised in Fredericksburg Virginia, a small city between Washington and Richmond. Like you, I went to a local high school, and then to a local college—Mary Washington, which was basically an all-girl’s school that had basically two kinds of girls—one that treated the place as a finishing school, and the others, like me, who didn’t want to go to a coed school.”

“Why?”

“The local boys were pigs; all they wanted to do was get into your pants. . .”

“Isn’t that what most of them want to do?”

“Yeah but I didn’t want a repeat of that in college. It was really nice being with just girls. I met some very interesting ones there.”

“What was your major?”

“Split Marketing and English.”

“What did you want to do with that?”

“I thought I wanted to get into retail clothing marketing.”

Jan returned with a Diet Coke bottle and filled their glasses.

Claire resumed, asking; “Then how did you get into broadcasting?”

Leslie answered; “Daddy owned a radio and television store which, in a small city like ours, also sold commercial broadcasting equipment. One of his best customers was the local clear channel radio station.”

“I never came across that term before. What’s clear channel?”

“Lots of people who work for big stations don’t know what it is. It broadcasts locally during the day, but has to shut down at night for bigger through stations.”

“Why?”

“Some stupid FCC regulations I have no idea which.”

“Sorry for the interruption: How did your father’s customer get you into broadcasting?”

“The Station Manager, who had become Daddy’s good friend, told Daddy he was looking for an assistant scriptwriter, really a proofreader of advertising copy, so Daddy suggested me. I got hired.”

“Then?”

“I began proofing copy, including reporters,’ and then began seeing what I thought was reporters’ deficiencies. One day I screwed up my courage and told the Station Manager what I thought of the copy.”

“What happened then?”

“Thank God he was Daddy’s friend. He said if I thought I could do a better job he’d make me a Junior Reporter. So I took the job.”

“And then?”

“A few months ago Fox bought the station, and I got moved to ‘The Mother Ship.’”

“What do you do now?”

“Like you, mainly light stuff, and, because of my Mary Washington background, gentile manners stories, as well as light fashion pieces.”

Just then, the engine noise diminished as the plane began a descent. Jan came by, collected the glasses, bowls, silverware and napkins as she said;

“Please make sure your seat belts are fastened snugly; we’ll be landing soon. “

After Jan stowed what she had collected, she returned to her bulkhead seat and fastened her cross straps. The two reporters remained silent as the plane descended through the clouds to a view of suburban Atlanta. The plane landed and taxied to a terminal building labeled Epps Aviation. From what both could see, they were surrounded by small jets and propeller planes. Jan unbuckled, unlatched then opened the door, then pressed the button that caused the stairs to descend.