Flight Dreams (38 page)

Cain is not at his desk, so Smith and Manning feel free to explore a bit. Manning gapes at the timbered ceiling, the stone and paneled walls, as Smith explains, “There’s more beyond that door, an entire
living
quarters. Nathan can hole up in here for weeks on end if he wants—and occasionally he does.” The main room contains not only the desk, but a large conference table, a glass-doored cabinet that displays a collection of rare firearms, a sitting area furnished with a tufted-leather chesterfield suite, a fireplace big enough to barbecue a steer, a fully stocked bar, and a circular stair that corkscrews its way up to a library loft overlooking the room below. The library is no mere display for decorative volumes, but a serious research center, with books arranged on shelving that protrudes at perpendiculars from the wall. Some of these shelving units, Manning notes, have been replaced by vented metal cabinets, the type that often houses electronics.

From behind these cabinets, a voice announces, “Good morning, Gordon.”

Smith and Manning turn to see Nathan Cain appear on the balcony. Smith sweats with the knowledge that their boss has overheard their conversation. Trying to remember exactly what has been said, he concludes that he has made no fatal slip, but nonetheless resents the fact that Cain would allow Smith to put himself in jeopardy.

The publisher descends the circular stairs, telling them, “In light of last evening’s disturbing developments and the grievous loss to all of us within the
Journal
family, I’m especially pleased to see both of you today. It’s good to be together at times like these.” His tone lightens momentarily as a thought occurs to him. He asks, “I don’t believe you’ve been up here before, Mr. Manning?”

“No, sir. It’s … beautiful.”

“Hngh,”
grunts Cain. Wryly, he adds, “Thanks. We like it.” Then he laughs at his little joke.

A tall man of rigid bearing, Cain takes the stairs slowly. He’s sixty-four, but will never retire. His heaps
of Journal
stock, his years of deferred compensation, his seven-digit salary—it all means nothing to him. Like his ever-present black silk pocket handkerchief and his custom suits, his wealth is simply a fact of life, another quirk that defines him to himself and to others. He has never married, and the ultimate disposition of his fortune has become, with the passing of years, a popular subject of speculation. He doesn’t give much thought to his material rewards because his greater pleasure, an obsessive pleasure, derives from power.

He has focused that power on only two goals: building the
Journal
and serving his country. A war injury (a wound to one of his thighs) sustained in Korea (he was too young for the Big One) left him with a bad leg. He has since walked with difficulty, bearing his pain silently, too proud to use a cane, which would in fact suit his style to a tee. With one hand he grips the railing; in the other he holds a book.

Arriving at the bottom stair, he again speaks in a somber tone, quoting: “‘Day of wrath and day of mourning. See fulfilled the prophets’ warning.’”

Smith smiles awkwardly, not knowing what to make of this verse.

Manning recognizes Cain’s words. “Aren’t those the opening lines of a medieval dirge, sir?”

“Bravo, Manning. Very good. I intend to use them at the top of Clifford’s obit.”

Manning finds the lines overly morose and melodramatic, a throwback to his own Catholic upbringing. Though he has renounced the theology of his youth, he is still fascinated by its trappings. As an altar boy, way back when he still believed, he was sometimes sprung from school to serve at funeral Masses. He remembers the melody of that dirge well. Chanted in Latin, it was grimly exciting, the perfect aural counterpart to the nostril-sting of incense, to the flicker of huge orange candles in their black-lacquered bases flanking a coffin in the center aisle. That was thirty years ago, when words of godly wrath still held power over him.

Today, he would never invoke such sentiments to eulogize the passing of a friend. He knows, though, that he’s in no position to express these thoughts to Cain, so he simply nods, acknowledging that Cain’s intentions are understood.

In contrast to Manning’s passive acquiescence, Smith effuses, “That’s
brilliant,
Nathan! Do you mean to tell us that you’re writing Cliff’s obituary
yourself
? I’m sure he’d be honored by such a send-off.”

“Noblesse oblige,” Cain tells him dryly. “I owe him that much.”

Manning says, “We’ll all miss him. He was one of the most cultured and intelligent writers I’ve ever worked with.”

Cain approaches Manning and rests a hand on his shoulder. “And to think—you were the one to discover his body. It must have been terrible for you.”

“I’ve seen the aftermath of murder before, but you’re never prepared to find a friend with bullets in his back.”

“Ughh,” Cain breathes a shudder, “bullets again.” He grips the area of his thigh where fragments of lead still abrade nerves and rob sleep. With measured steps, he crosses the vast office toward the case that displays his gun collection. He gestures toward the weapons behind the glass. “In light of Clifford’s tragic demise, I’m sorely tempted to issue an editorial calling for a broader ban on handguns—they’ve become tools of such wanton violence.”

Smith and Manning have followed him to the showcase. “Gosh,” says Smith, “I never thought I’d see the day when the
Journal
jumped on
that
bandwagon. Not that I disagree—there are strong arguments on both sides of the debate—but this paper has always been a staunch defender of the Second Amendment.”

“I haven’t
decided
,” Cain reminds him. “I said that I’m tempted. We’ll see.” He notices Manning peering close at a jade-handled pistol enshrined within the display. Cain chortles. “It didn’t take you long to zero in on the centerpiece of my collection, Mr. Manning.”

“I have no great knowledge of guns,” Manning responds, “but that one certainly seems … unique.”

“Indeed it is,” Cain assures him with grave understatement. “That gun has a remarkable history that, one day, I may share with you. Suffice it to say, that rarest of Nambu pistols has been used solely to defend honor, never to commit treachery.”

There is a pause. Enticed by Cain’s statement, Gordon Smith eagerly says to him, “Well, come on, Gordon—tell us the story!”

“Patience,” commands Cain, one hand raised to fend off further inquiry, the other still grasping the book he carried down from the balcony. “That can wait. We have important
business
to conduct this morning. First, the most urgent question, one that must be answered quickly: Who killed Clifford Nolan?”

Smith stammers, “The police, well, they’re working on it even as we speak.”

“The hell with them,” snaps Cain, “and damn their bureaucratic bumbling.” He repeats, louder, “Who killed Clifford? And why?” He’s a powerful man, and he expects answers.

Flustered, Smith suggests, “The
Journal
could undertake its own investigation.”

Cain smiles, silently thanking Smith for not forcing him to make the suggestion himself. Watching this exchange, Manning can predict with near certainty that Smith will later assign the investigation to him. That’s what he hopes, anyway—and there’s a good chance that someone else may now inherit the Zarnik story.

Content that a Nolan investigation will soon be under way, Cain waves Smith and Manning toward the grouping of leather sofas. As the three of them walk across the room, Cain continues, “I’ve been brushing up on my textbook astronomy”—he hefts the book he has been carrying—“and I can’t decide if this Zarnik character is a crackpot or if he’s actually
on
to something. What have you learned?” He drops the book onto a low table. The thud actually echoes in the cavernous room.

Sitting, Manning consults his notebook. “In a nutshell, Zarnik’s credentials are solid and his research seems sound, but I was put off by his inability to answer some straightforward questions of fact. He promised me a video demonstration—he calls it a ‘graphic realization’—that he claims will prove the existence of his tenth planet unequivocally.”

“Yes,” says Cain, “Miss Haring showed me the notes you sent in last night.”

Manning stops short, unaware that his computer stories were accessible to anyone while still being drafted, before being filed in the editorial pipeline.

Cain continues. “If Zarnik’s claims are fraudulent, he talks a damn good story—I’ll grant him that.” He settles against a long credenza that faces the sofas. Its top is cluttered with two television sets, a computer monitor, a rack of black-box hardware, and a pedestrian-looking VCR, its clock flashing midnight.

“His technical mumbo-jumbo is way beyond me,” Manning admits, “but for some reason, he trusts me. I told him that any science writer would be better qualified to report this, but he insists that I alone tell his story to the world.”

Gordon Smith beams. “Now
that’s
an exclusive! Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth, Marko. If the professor wants you to write it, we’ll run every word.”

“Indeed,” says Cain, seizing the reins of the conversation. “If Dr. Zarnik feels some sort of allegiance either to Mr. Manning or to the
Journal,
we’d be foolish not to take advantage of it—our summer circulation can always use a little goosing. But there are other considerations, too, with ramifications beyond the selling of newspapers.”

Smith’s normally jovial visage turns quizzical. He glances at Manning, then peers at Cain. “What do you mean, Nathan?”

“That’s why I originally called you here today, gentlemen. May I get you a little something first?” He hoists himself from the credenza and crosses to the bar. A flick of his index finger signals that Smith and Manning should follow.

“Bit early for me,” says Smith, chuckling.

Manning tells Cain, “Club soda, if you have it.”

“Hngh.”
Cain nods, pours Manning’s drink, then a stiff snifterful of cognac for himself. He tips the glass to his lips, breathes deeply from it to savor the foretaste, then drinks. He closes his eyes, finally swallows, and sighs.

Manning lifts his glass in a silent toast, then drinks the soda.

Cain indicates by the direction of his glance that they should sit again, and he begins leading them back across the room to the sofas. Manning and Smith measure their steps so as not to outpace their boss. When they have settled in again, with Cain seated on the sofa across from his underlings, Manning produces his notebook and uncaps his pen.

With a wag of his finger, Cain tells him, “No notes this morning, Mr. Manning. What I’m about to tell you is strictly between us.”

The reporter obliges by closing his steno pad. With elbows planted on his knees, he stares at Cain, at full attention.

“Ever since its founding,” says Cain, “the
Journal
has been widely perceived as a conservative paper. Whether in terms of the political philosophy promoted on its editorial page, or in terms of the prudent fiscal management that has allowed JournalCorp to thrive and reward its shareholders—this paper, this
tower,
and all that it represents has been guided for more than a century by the tenets of conservative capitalism. The pendulum of public opinion has swung erratically from generation to generation, but the
Journal
has stood tall as a bastion of time-honored values. We have been alternately lionized or vilified, depending on the mood of the day.”

He swallows again from his snifter before continuing, “I realize that the
Journal’s
guiding principles are not shared by everyone within its corporate family. Today’s journalists, in particular, seem to be of a decidedly liberal stripe. That’s fine, that’s healthy. Society is always enriched by debate, never endangered by it, and this paper exists, at its very core, to defend freedom of speech and diversity of ideas. I tell you this not to impress you with my open-mindedness, not to enlighten you with a history already known to you, but to prepare you for a glimpse of things to come.”

Cain leans forward, ready to share a secret. “Gentlemen, when I made the decision to leave military life and turn my attentions to the private sector, I never dreamed that I would one day be entrusted at the helm of the most venerable newspaper in the Midwest. With such miracles behind us, though, our vision has been greatly expanded. The
Journal
is now poised to become the centerpiece of a communications empire that will rival anything in New York”—Cain’s eyes bug as he spits a single, explosive breath of laughter—“let alone
Atlanta
.”

Smith and Manning, seated next to each other, exchange a reticent glance, unsure if they should share Cain’s mirth or be awed by his ambition. Smith says, “That’s wonderful, Nathan. I didn’t realize there were plans—”

“Gordon,” says Cain, nostrils flaring as he sniffs at his glass, “of
course
you didn’t know. I hate to sound secretive, but the Pentagon’s involved here—they’re making it
happen
for us.”

Smith and Manning again exchange a glance, but this time there is no option of mirth. Nathan Cain has long been known for both the perversity and dryness of his humor—what there is of it. For him to make the Pentagon the subject of a fib, though, would be the moral equivalent of flag-burning.

Cain continues. “You’re well aware that our broadcasting division has been developing a new communications satellite. Greater capacity, higher output, blah blah blah, all the bells and whistles. But you’re
not
aware that the satellite employs a whole new technology that will enable JournalCorp to take a commanding lead in integrating broadcast functions with print journalism, telecommunications, cable, the Internet, you name it. It becomes one big ball of wax. And, gentlemen”—with a decisive
clack,
he sets his snifter on a marble-topped end table—“it’s
ours
.”

Smith and Manning don’t even look at each other. They’re speechless.

“But,” says Cain, “there’s no way in hell we can accomplish this on our own. The military sees the potential value in all this—who wouldn’t?—and thanks to old friends and unforgotten favors, the
Journal
and the Pentagon have gone to bed together. They’re helping us enhance our computer power, and they’re bumping us up to the next shuttle launch. Strings have been
pulled,
my friends. They have
cooperated.
And now they expect a little cooperation—a minor accommodation—from us.”