ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (14 page)

Sitting toward the front of the Press Room, a portly man in his 50s, bald and
wearing rimless glasses, waved his hand with offensive persistence. He deserved
to be ignored, or at least called on last, but Jewel couldn't stand it. She
looked his way, took a deep breath and produced something like a smile.
"Your turn,” she said.

The reporter stood and ostentatiously pointed his tape recorder at Jewel
Rogard. "Miss Rogard," he said, "I believe you're misleading us.
I think you've left out something crucial."

She maintained the smile. "Is that a question?"

The reporter scowled. "No. The question is this: Since we all know that
the CSA is in financial trouble, isn't it true that Bourque intends to ask for
a loan or foreign aid and that President Callaway—by agreeing to a meeting—is
signaling that he intends to deliver?"

The room grew quiet again. "I've heard nothing about loans or foreign
aid," Jewel said. "If that changes, I'll be sure to inform you."

The reporter sat, still scowling.

Jewel scanned the room. Arthur Nixon, INN's man in Washington, was sitting in
row four, against the left wall. He was a man of the species homo rodentia,
sharp-faced, sharp-nosed, with prominent incisors and beady eyes. He held up a
hand with calculated timidity and tried to catch her eye, hoping to charm her.
He was like the driver, asking to be let through a line. Once the signal was
caught, there was no refusing it.

"Mr. Nixon," Jewel said, unable to avoid noticing him, and resigned
to hearing his question, "I believe you're next."

He stood. "Thank you. My question is this: How can our new President—a
Black man himself--justify holding talks with the leader of a country that
treats Blacks like subhumans?" He sat.

"Well," Jewel said calmly, "I don't know that I entirely agree
with your characterization, but I think the President would say that anything
that contributes to our mutual understanding would be valuable."

"I see. Thank you," Nixon said, flashing her that annoying smile of
his.

Jewel ignored it and pointed to a young Black woman in the back of the room, an
NPR reporter. "Will President Callaway talk to Mr. Bourque about the civil
rights of Southern Blacks? Will they discuss the border incidents, and the
people shot down trying to escape from the Confederacy?"

Jewel took a deep breath. "We're still working on the agenda, but I'm sure
it will include everything of mutual interest. Nothing's off the table. And, oh
yes, I might add I don't think there've been any violent border incidents in
the last decade."

"So you're saying yes to talking about civil rights and the border?"
Ms. Carter asked, not willing to let it go.

"I don't know how much time will be spent on those things, but I'm sure
they'll come up," Jewel said.

The NPR reporter opened her mouth to ask a follow-up, but Jewel didn't give her
a chance. "In the back row," she said, pointing to a tall,
blond man she'd never seen before.

"Rolf Theissen,
Der Spiegel
," he said. The German accent was
barely noticeable. "Will President Bourque be bringing his own security
team?"

Jewel gave him one of her warmest smiles. "I'm sorry, Herr Theissen, but I
can't discuss the CSA's security plans."

The German wasn't finished. "Can you at least tell us if we'll be putting
in place any special security arrangements?"

"As a matter of fact, I can't." She smiled again and checked her
watch. "Sorry, that's it for today. See you all tomorrow."

Someone shouted out one last question: "Will the President and the CSA
leader have a joint press conference?"

Jewel was already three steps from the podium and scurrying. She glanced back
toward the reporters, threw up her hands in a who-knows gesture, then left the
room, even though the questions kept coming.

Back at the President's study, Callaway and Wang were watching the whole thing
on television. "She handled herself very well," Callaway said.

"Yeah,” Wang said. ‘It wasn't as bad as I expected."

Callaway’s phone buzzed and he picked it up. "Yes? Sure, send her
in."

A thoroughly outraged Veronica Tennenbaum strode into the President's study.
"Did you hear what that son-of-a-bitch did?" She asked.

"Which son-of-a-bitch is that?" Wang inquired mildly.

"Your co-conspirator in the Confederate States of America," Ms.
Tennenbaum said.

"Pickett?"

"No. Mr. President Virgil Lee Buddy Bourque," she snapped. "Our
great and good friend."

"What did he do?" Callaway asked, alarmed.

"He scooped our announcement," she said. "Or, rather, he had his
pet preacher Harlan Hurbuckle announce it from the alter of the Glass Church,
to a live audience of 5,000 and a nationwide television audience."

"Very colorful," Wang said. "And here I thought it was going to
be a press release. Isn't that what we agreed on, Mr. President?"

"Goddamn right it is."

"Oh, the CSA put out the press release, as agreed, but Rev. Hurbuckle
broke the news 10 a.m. this morning."

Callaway considered this, then shrugged. "Two hours? I don't know that
makes much of a diff…"

"And according to Hurbuckle," Ms. Tennenbaum said, still livid,
"
You
, Mr. President,
you
asked Bourque if he'd be willing to
meet with you."

"What?"

"Yep. He made it sound like
we
were the ones asking for a
handout."

"You're kidding me," Callaway said, flabbergasted. "I thought we
agreed…"

"We did," Wang said. "Specifically and in detail."

"Maybe he felt he
had
to," Callaway said. "And it's not a
bad idea."

"For him, maybe," Wang said. "For us, it's terrible. We'll have
to deny it."

"No we won't," Callaway said. "We can't start off by calling
Bourque a liar."

Wang thought a moment. "Yeah, you're right," he said, disappointed.

"Godddam devious son-of-a-bitch." Ms. Tennenbaum said. "If we're
not careful, that man is going to strip us down to our underwear."

Chapter Seven

"The King of Talk Show TV," as one sycophantic media observer once
called him, strolled through the INN’s New York newsroom, chatting up the
busty, blue-eyed news girls, nodding at favored underlings, exchanging
pleasantries with the rest of the flying monkeys.

This was John X. Sullivan, Jack to his friends, host of
The Edge
,
television's most provocative, most controversial political interview and
commentary show, dearly loved by half the country, roundly despised by the
other, a man whose words had an impact all out of proportion to his airtime and
his audience.

Sullivan didn't want to look like he was hurrying, but he had a destination in
mind and he knew he'd better get there pretty soon—the men's room. He turned a
corner and saw a junior video editor coming out the door. He slipped inside and
found, to his relief, that he was alone. This was the third time Sullivan had
visited the place in the last hour, but the first time that the stalls were
empty and, more importantly, that all of the urinals were free. He finally had
the room to himself.

He straddled the second urinal from the left—it always had to be the second
from the left—unzipped and let loose a stream nearly powerful enough to erode
the "American Darrendard" logo imbedded in the porcelain. And
while he peed, he reflexively evaluated himself and thought of the women who
had whispered to him that he was significantly above average, although not so
big as to be alarming.

Sullivan zipped up, moved over to the sink and bent toward the mirror. He
didn't feel the need to wash, but he wanted to make sure the old mug was up to
snuff. He thought, with some justification, that he resembled John Wayne.
He was tall, raw-boned, nicely weathered, only slightly overweight, with a
manly head of shiny dark hair, grey enough at the temples to give him an air of
authority. "Looking good," he told himself, in that familiar resonant
voice that had made him his fortune.

He checked the solid gold Rolex on his left wrist, the watch Helmut Metzger
gave him three years ago, when
The Edge
settled in at number one in
cable ratings. Time to head upstairs for the morning meeting with the Big
Man. He knew what the subject would be—the Callaway-Bourque meeting. He had no
idea how Metzger would twist it—he'd given up trying to anticipate the man—but
he was sure it would be surprising and effective. In the battle for America's
soul, there was no more tireless or inventive a crusader than Helmut Metzger.

Only one elevator had the honor of ascending to the 43rd floor, the
"eagle's aerie" whose sole occupant was the first lord of the media
moguls, Helmut Metzger, the owner of multiple television channels, radio
stations, newspapers and magazines that, together, informed and entertained the
hoi polloi
in 17 different countries. He was the German-born genius who
had singlehandedly transformed journalism from dedicated reportage and an
unending search for truth into a irresistible appeal to the most primitive
human instincts, a juicy concoction of gossip, sex and political partisanship..

Sullivan made his way to the special elevator and pressed the single button
beside it. The door slid open as though it had been waiting for him and the
elevatorman/bodyguard, one of Metzger's retro whims, stood aside so that he
could enter. The elevator shot up like a closed capsule in a pneumatic tube,
arriving at the 43rd floor in seconds.

Sullivan emerged from the elevator smiling, striding into the Bauhaus-styled
chamber, but Metzger was not looking his way. Metzger was sitting at his
glass-and-stainless steel desk, and being serviced simultaneously by a
scissor-wielding barber—a small, grey-haired Black man—standing behind him, and
a 19-year-old manicurist, second-place finisher in the 2009 Miss Sweden
contest, kneeling at his feet.

While they worked on him, Metzger gazed out of the panoramic window that
encircled his penthouse office, contemplating the heavy black clouds coming
toward the city out of the north. After a moment, he turned toward Sullivan.
"The rain will come soon," he said, smiling, with a slight German
accent.. He did not invite Sullivan to sit on one of the several black suede
beanbag chairs artfully scattered around the room.

"Yes," Sullivan said, following his gaze. "Pretty big storm
coming."

"I'm finished," said the manicurist, standing and displaying her
figure. She put her bottles, brushes and files into her little box and closed
the lid. "You'll be dry in a few minutes."

Metzger looked at his gleaming nails, pleased. "Thank you," he said. "Isaac?"

"Yes, suh, jus' one more little clip," said the barber. He made a
precise snip with his gleaming scissors. "There you are, suh, looking
mighty fine."

A thought slowly made its way across Metzger's face. "Isaac," he
said, "now don't you be offended but I have a question."

The little Black man stepped in front of Metzger so they could see each other.
"Yes, suh?" he asked, with practiced tolerance.

"Well, you being an African-American, you have that kinky Negro hair,
correct?"

"Yes, suh," Isaac agreed. "No denyin’ it.”

"So how is it that you've gotten so good at barbering
white
men's
hair?"

Isaac smiled benevolently. "Practice, suh," he said.
"Practice."

Metzger nodded as though he found Isaac's answer satisfying. He examined his
nails again and ran a hand over the back of his neck and smiled, apparently
quite pleased with his beauty treatment. "Thank you very much Isaac—and
Inga," Metzger said. "Marthe has your checks downstairs." The
barber and the runner-up mumbled their thanks, entered the waiting elevator and
whooshed away.

As for Jack Sullivan, he could see no improvement in the Metzger’s physiognomy.
Partly as a result of Metzger's youthful days as a boxer—which he managed to
mention daily—he was an irredeemably ugly man, with a lumpy face, cauliflower
ears, scars around his eyes, sparse grey hair, and a nose broken so often that
it rivaled Lombard Street. The overall effect was one of power—loathsome and
malignant power, like the picture of Dorian Grey moldering in the attic.

"Look out there, Jack," Metzger said, pointing to the window.
"It's almost on us."

Sullivan looked. The thunder clouds were rolling in and raindrops were
beginning to make tracks down the windows, and everything was lit by jagged
flashes of lightning . He felt like he was sitting in some gigantic heavenly
control room and that the Wizard—Metzger—was about to test humanity. Again.

"Jack, the gods have been good to us," Metzger said, leaning forward.

"Yes sir," Sullivan said, wondering what Metzger was talking about.

"I knew we'd find a way to attack him. I felt sure we could take him down.
But the truth is, Jack, I never thought it would come this quickly, and I never
thought he'd be the one to hand me the rope to lynch him with."

Sullivan was startled. "Lynch?"

"Politically, I mean," Metzger said, grinning with malicious
pleasure.

"Of course. But how are we going to do it?"

"Ask me about that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What's happening tomorrow?"

"I'll have the results of the polls I commissioned after the announcement.
They'll tell me exactly where to hit him."

"But what do I say tonight?" Sullivan asked. "Do I lay off or
start hitting him?"

Metzger covered his mouth with his hand and his eyes wandered off, briefly. He
was calculating. "Go easy on him tonight, Jack," he said at last.
"Be a journalist. Report what that Jewel Rogard said in the briefing.
Point out that this is an historic development and that it would be sheer folly
to immediately speculate on its outcome. Be nice and reasonable."

"Just for tonight, you mean."

Metzger smiled, which was a fearsome sight. "Of
course."

"We gotta get out in front of this," Marty Katz said, taking a deep
draw from his cigar and exhaled. "We have to set the table before someone
else does."

Wang tried to wave away the smoke, which was headed directly toward him.
"Set the table?"

"It's an expression," Katz said. "It means to set the terms of
the argument before your opponent can. You know, strike the first blow, seize
the initiative. If we do that, the rest will follow."

Callaway nodded. " I get it, Marty. I get it. So what do we do?"

"We’re looking for the maximum impact on the most influential
audience," he said. "So we put someone on
Sunday Newsmakers
,
this Sunday if possible."

"Who?" Callaway asked.

"Veronica, I think," Wang said. "She's got the stature. And if
Roger Nelson tries to push her too hard, she'll run over him like
steamroller."

"That's true," Katz said, taking another puff on his cigar.
"He's not going to get her to say anything she doesn't want to."

They looked toward Callaway, wondering if he agreed, waiting for a decision.
For a few moments, he was his usually unreadable self. "I want
you
to do it, Marty," he said finally.

"Veronica would be better," Katz said.

"We both know she's something of a loose cannon," the President said.
"Which is not to say I don't love her. But she doesn't know the situation
as well as you do, Marty. And sometimes, her answers are, well, too
substantive."

"My answers aren't substantive?"

"You're a better bullshitter," Wang explained.

The President smiled, and Katz blew a cloud of smoke in Wang's direction.

The show opened, as it had for the last eleven years, with a one-shot of the
craggy but nevertheless handsome host, Roger Nelson, displaying his knowing smile,
attired in a lush Paul Stuart suit and a glorious multi-colored silk tie, the
combination costing as much as a cabin class transatlantic voyage on the QE II.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he intoned, "I'm Roger
Nelson and this is
Sunday Newsmakers
. This morning, our exclusive guest
is Martin Katz, President Callaway's Chief Political Advisor. Good morning,
Marty."

The screen view switched to a two-shot, with Marty Katz sitting across the
triangular walnut conference table from Nelson. His left side was to the
camera, which was unfortunate because it made his comb-over obvious even to the
unobservant. His mustache, however, was neatly clipped, and he was wearing a
suit that was even better than Nelson’s.

"Good morning, Roger," he said. "Glad to be here."

Nelson offered a benign smile. Every Sunday morning, it was the same, a duel
between himself and his interview subject, a duel without visible blood, but
with a potentially sensational outcome. Could he push his guest hard enough to
make news? Could he catch him off guard, get him to say something he hadn't
intended? Making headlines, outsmarting interview guests—that's what made
ratings.

Roger Nelson knew his subject was a canny old poll, and that it wouldn’t be
easy to rattle him, to get him to say something he hadn't intended. His best
chance was to stick to his system: Start slow, serve up softballs, get
his guest to relax, toss a curve or two, and maybe a changeup, then—zing! A
fastball aimed right at the head. With a little luck, Marty wouldn't see it
coming. Betsy Stark hadn't seen it coming, which is how he got her to admit
she'd had an affair while in office. Gov. Myers had also missed the fastball,
and inadvertently revealed he was considering changing parties.

Marty Katz approached the interview from the opposite direction. His goal was
to win hearts and minds, neutralize the opposition, and say nothing that would
grab headlines and give aid and comfort to the enemy. But this wasn't
unfamiliar territory. He'd subjected himself to hundreds of interviews
like this, if not thousands, and he believed he was damn good at them. He
intended to say exactly what he had in mind and not a syllable more.

"Marty," Nelson began, his tone—even his body language—conspicuously
benign, "the whole country is talking about yesterday's announcement that
President Callaway plans to meet with President Bourque. I’m sure you were in
on the decision. Could you tell us more about it?"

Katz leaned forward and took a graceful cut at the softball. "Sure, Roger.
I'd be glad to. As you know, we have always had diplomatic relations with the
CSA. Well, after the election, some low-level officers on both sides happened
to meet each other at a Washington restaurant and they got to talking."

"So that's when the idea was born?" Nelson asked.

"So I gather," Katz said.

Nelson pressed on. "How did the two principals hear about the idea?"

Katz relaxed a bit. This might be easier than he expected. "I don't know
all the details, Roger. I got in at the end of the process."

Nelson decided to up the ante. "Speaking about process, I just have one
more question about it. In his sermon in Louisiana the other day, Rev. Harlan
Hurbuckle said that President Callaway came to President Bourque and asked for
the meeting. Is that what happened?"

"Well, I think the Reverend is little mixed up, but it doesn't
matter," Katz said, hoping that answer would satisfy Nelson. "The two
Presidents obviously have a lot to talk about."

Nelson nodded, ready to move on. "What
do
they have to talk about,
Marty?"

Katz unconsciously reached into his jacket for his cigar case, then retracted
his hand, put it back on the table and laced his fingers together. "Well,
we're neighbors, Roger. We have a lot to talk about. Just think of the
environment, for instance. We share concerns about air and water
pollution."

Nelson felt a yawn coming on, and gritted his teeth, the anchormans' most
dependable way of stifling it. "But…"

"And there's water resources—we share the Mississippi, you know."
Katz said, hoping to tempt Nelson into a dead end.