by Tim LaHaye
He tried again to talk Dirk into driving, at least for a stretch. But Dirk was busy forming a snowball and hurling it, cricket style, with a long, looping left-hand delivery. Cameron barely evaded the missile, then dived into the car, laughing.
This was just another of the kinds of storms he loved. And while he had no interest in getting stuck or being late, this was an adventure, one he would long remember.
Cameron was relieved when they finally pulled into the covered parking garage of the hotel and banquet center. Once settled into their room with a couple of hours before they needed to be dressed for the bash, Cameron called his mother.
She wanted every detail, but she sounded terrible.
"You doing all right, Ma?"
"A little tired today. I'll be okay. Looking forward to seeing you in a few days."
"Two to be exact. Me too. Dirk just got back from
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sneaking a peek at the banquet hall, and it appears they have pulled out all the stops. Lots of color and lights and sound. I couldn't afford to rent a tux, so I've borrowed Dirk's. It's a little snug and a little long, but I doubt anyone will notice or care."
"What about him?" Mrs. Williams said. "Doesn't he need his tux?"
"Nah. He's all tweedy like a Welshman should be, and anyway, he's just my date."
"Oh, Cameron!"
"That's what they think."
"Who's 'they'?"
"The powers that be at the Globe . They actually asked if we were lovers."
"Oh, they did not! Don't think you can pull one over on your naive mom just because you're an Ivy Leaguer now. I know better than that."
"You're right, Ma. I was just teasing."
The banquet turned out to be even more than Cameron had hoped for. Copies of the honorees' articles were reproduced and circulated in a colorful brochure, and professional actors read some of each aloud. He may have been dreaming or just hoping, but it seemed to Cameron that his drew the loudest applause. Dirk agreed. The recipients were lauded individually and presented plaques commemorating the occasion.
The guest speaker was a horror novelist who had gotten his start in newspapers and never lost his affection for journalism. He regaled the crowd with stories everyone
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could identify with, and by the end of the evening Cameron was wondering if a newsweekly should really be his career target. Newspapering was still the stepchild of the publishing biz, but if you could land on the staff of a big metro daily, well, that would be exciting too.
The aide to the executive editor of the Globe made a beeline to Cameron at the end of the evening. "I know it's late and that you want to get going," she said, "but Mr. Rowland would still like a word with you. And you might want to consider staying the night and outlasting this storm."
A walk up the street confirmed her wisdom. Several inches covered everything. But Cameron didn't have the luxury of time if he wanted to get back to New Jersey in time for his flight the next morning.
He gave his keys to Dirk and asked if he could manage getting the car onto the street and parked in front of the Globe building. "Have it warm, defrosted, and ready to go, and I'll make it worth your while."
"You will, eh?" Dirk said, accepting a single dollar from Cameron. "Never saw a tip like this on the London Exchange."
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EIGHTEEN
Rayford did not see himself as a womanizer. Except for his Christmas party indiscretion a few years before, he had never been unfaithful to Irene, though he had to admit that if she had had a necking session like the one he'd had, only technicalities would keep him from calling it adultery.
His conscience had bothered him so much since that time that he had sincerely gotten his act together. Rayford wasn't blind. He could tell when women found him attractive. But the bad taste had lingered for so long after that holiday dalliance that he had been able to play dumb and deflect flirtatious advances.
Now he wasn't so sure. Hattie Durham had been a teenager when she became a Pan-Con flight attendant, and any heterosexual man with eyes agreed she was the
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total package. Head to toe, side to side, hair, face, and personality, she quickly became every passenger's favorite attendant and every crew member's dream.
She could be ditzy, but Rayford was convinced that was an act designed to manipulate. Interestingly, unless she was being reprimanded--which was rare, as she seemed to love her job enough to be conscientious--she never played that game with him. She plainly looked up to Rayford, and maybe he was being naive, but it seemed genuine, not as if she was just flattering him because he was the captain.
Rayford was able to talk himself out of any less-than-honorable intentions by reminding himself how young she was. She had senior flight attendant written all over her, though it would be a few years before she reached that status. Other attendants, particularly women, acted less than impressed with her at first--jealousy, Rayford decided--but she soon won over even them. Her superiors seemed to look for minor offenses, but she was so good that they had trouble finding fault.
Rayford simply liked thinking about her, and he was always pleased when he saw her name on the crew list.
He was heading for the parking garage at O'Hare one evening when he heard heels approaching quickly from behind. "You live in Mt. Prospect, don't you, Captain?"
He turned, still moving. "I do, Hattie. Why?"
"You know I'm not far away. In Des Plaines. Just got a call that my roommate can't pick me up, and I hate to take public transportation at night. Would you mind--?"
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"Of course not."
Hattie seemed to chatter nervously as they headed toward Des Plaines. It was all Rayford could do to keep his eyes on the road. He was certain he had never had as beautiful a woman in such close proximity.
He called Irene. "I'm going to be a few minutes, hon. Running a stranded teammate to her place in Des Plaines."
When he pulled up in front of Hattie's condo, Rayford started to get out.
"No need," Hattie said. "If you'll just wait to be sure I get inside before the boogeyman gets me, that will be fine." She took his hand in both of hers. "I really appreciate this, Captain. You're a doll."
At home a few minutes later Irene said, "So who was the stranded flight attendant?"
"That teenager with the funny name. I've told you about her."
"Hattie, the ditz?" Irene said.
"That's the one."
"Lock her keys in the car?"
"Wouldn't put it past her."
Rayford foresaw nothing untoward with Hattie Durham in the future. But he sure liked remembering her perched in the passenger seat, right beside him.
Dizzy Rowland, executive editor of the Boston Globe , welcomed Cameron into his spacious office
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and introduced him to three of his top people, two men and a woman. Their names flew past Cameron and he would have failed a quiz, but they all certainly looked the part. In banquet finery and at ease in the presence of the big boss, they exuded confidence and friendliness. All had nice things to say about Cameron's work.
Rowland pointed to a chair at a conference table away from his desk, and the five of them sat, four staring at Cameron. He finally felt conspicuous in his ill-fitting tux, and he was tempted to explain it.
"I just wanted a few minutes," Mr. Rowland said. "First, congratulations on your Pulitzer nomination and this award, not to mention your classwork. My spies at Princeton tell me you're a dean's-list student."
"Far from straight A's," Cameron said. "But I do feel obligated to give it all I've got."
"Admirable. Laudable. May I ask your career goal?"
" Global Weekly ," Cameron said.
"Wow," Rowland said. "You didn't even have to think about that."
Cameron cocked his head. "It's been my dream for years."
Rowland sat back and seemed to study him, smiling.
Cameron's gaze darted at t
he others, who appeared bemused. Was admitting that lofty goal exposing himself as a rube, a dreamer? Well, the man had asked.
"You're sitting in the company of four career newspaper people," Rowland said. "Journalists, curious people. It wouldn't surprise me if one of them had a question."
They all seemed to speak at once, but the woman
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prevailed. "Just wondering," she said. "Did you feel a check at all in your mind, blurting your magazine dream to a newspaper executive?"
Cameron thrust out his lower lip. "I guess I didn't. Should I have? Was that politically incorrect? impertinent? rude?"
The rest laughed. "It was commendable," Rowland said. "A lot of people would have worried more about diplomacy."
"Sorry," Cameron said. "I wasn't thinking. I certainly didn't mean to offend."
"Offend?" the woman said. "I found it refreshing. A little naive, perhaps, but refreshing."
"Naive?"
"Let me put it to you this way," she said. "A lot of our colleagues, even at our level, apply to the newsmagazines at least once a year, trying to get out of the daily grind--"
"--and into the weekly grind," one of the men said, and they all laughed again.
"The competition for jobs at GW, Time, Newsweek , and U.S . News is fierce. Your career goal is neither a surprise nor unique. Just lofty."
Cameron didn't know what to say. The Ivy League-- Princeton in particular--was way past where he should have looked for college too. He wasn't about to give up a dream because it looked unlikely. He wanted to live an unlikely life.
"Did you wonder what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Williams?" Rowland said.
"Well, sure."
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"Or did you just think it was to meet you and congratulate you?"
"I didn't have any idea."
"That's refreshing too," Rowland said. "I confess an ulterior motive. We want to hire you."
Cameron wondered where his mind had been. Why was this such a surprise? He simply hadn't considered it.
"Lest you think we say this to all the award winners," the woman said, "we don't. Of this year's crop, you are the only one."
"Well," Cameron said, suddenly feeling like an inarticulate humbler. "Wow. Thanks. I had been hoping for a good internship."
"We're not talking about an internship, Mr. Williams," Rowland said. "For the rest of your senior year you would remain on the staff of the student paper and continue stringing for the local paper, but you would make yourself available for the occasional assignment from us, should a regional story hit in your area."
"Sure, I could do that."
"But upon graduation, maybe after a week or two to get your affairs in order, we would expect you to relocate here for a full-time reporting position."
"Full-time?"
"You are a gifted young man, Mr. Williams. We believe you have the stuff of a good newspaperman. Here you'll get a chance to find out if we're right. You'll get grunt work and have a deadline every day. This kind of work separates the pros from the dilettantes."
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"And," the woman said, "the Global Weekly wannabes from the real deals."
Taking a solitary predawn stroll with his bodyguards at a discreet distance, Nicolae allowed Leon Fortunato's strange counsel to dance in his mind. Long a sports fan, Nicolae had always been entertained by the braggadocios, especially those who backed up their boasts. He agreed with the adage, "It's not bragging if you can do it."
The strutting confidence of young physical geniuses inspired Nicolae, and he wanted that same image as a politician and leader. But if Leon was right, the populace would soon tire of a self-promoter, a cocky show-off. Where did one go for examples of humility or to practice the art? One thing was certain: if Nicolae was going to appear humble, it would be more than art. It would be an act.
Cameron made his way onto the snowy street in front of the Globe building, not knowing how to feel. He was chagrined at his starry-eyed dream of landing even an internship with Global Weekly and high on the rush of being offered a job with the Globe . He couldn't wait to tell Dirk, let alone his family, particularly his mother. The Volvo was idling, and while huge, soft flakes lit
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on the car, they melted quickly. He opened the door to greet Dirk, but he wasn't there. He couldn't be far. He wouldn't leave an unlocked car on a busy street.
Cameron stood and turned to look, just in time to take a huge snowball in the chest that exploded all over his face and in his hair. Dirk came staggering across the street cackling so loud that Cameron feared he would pass out.
Cameron knelt and scooped snow he quickly formed into a ball, and before Dirk could dodge him, he fired away.
Dirk ducked and it splatted atop his head.
"Truce!" Cameron called out. "We've got to get going, and I have news!"
They brushed off and climbed into the car. Cameron had never understood this about himself, but besides loving storms, he didn't mind driving in them. They could be scary, but he figured he'd drive for as long as he could and get as far as he could and try to outlast the blizzard.
Being in a warm car with a full tank and a good friend, well, what could be better than that? Getting through the city and onto I-90 took just a few minutes, and while traffic was slow, the plows seemed to be keeping up with the snowfall.
At the first tollbooth the attendant said, "How far you going?"
"Jersey."
"Good luck. You got chains?"
"Do I need 'em?"
"You might the farther you go south. Don't be a hero."
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A couple of hours later it was well past midnight and Cameron was merging onto I-84. At first it looked clearer and the traffic was lighter, so he hoped to make up some time. Dirk had been holding forth on conspiracy theories the whole way, and when Cameron could concentrate, he found his friend amusing.
"I didn't know the British Isles produced conspiracy theorists too," he said. "I thought those Illuminati and Bilderberger and Trilateral Commission freaks were all stateside."
"You don't believe in any of that?" Dirk said. "If you'd worked under Joshua Todd-Cothran at the Exchange you might change your tune."
"Or exchange it."
"Hilarious."
"Seriously, Dirk, you believe all that?"
"I don't know what to think, but it makes a lot of sense to me. Jonathan Stonagal is a secret member of a lot of organizations, and when he and Todd-Cothran and a bunch of other muckety-mucks are rumored to be meeting, major financial decisions follow that affect the whole world."
"Glad I'm not in economics."
"Don't kid yourself, Cam. We're all in economics. It's all about economics. You'd think a journalist would know that. Want to find the source of change, the source of trouble, the source of anything? Follow the money."
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NINETEEN
Nicolae looked over his shoulder and found his bodyguards chatting among themselves. That was just as well. He felt safe in his own compound. And he didn't need them watching his every move, noticing all he was doing.
He wanted to pray, but that was private. He didn't need to kneel or bow, though he felt some obligation toward his spirit guide, whoever that was. Once he had deigned to admit his dependence on the wisdom of his guide and had the temerity to ask to whom he was communicating. He was met with obnoxious silence and took that to mean it either wasn't his to ask or wasn't the right time.
Just now he didn't care about the identity of his netherworld communicant. All Nicolae wanted was some confirmation that his counsel from Leon Fortunato was worthy of consideration.
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He peeked back again and believed he was far enough away to avoid detection. He walked slowly toward the rising sun, whispering. "My lord and my master, tell me how to comport myself so the masses will be drawn to me and give me what I want."
He stopped and listened, knowing he would hear nothing audibly. He was opening his
spirit to impressions, messages from beyond the mortal coil. Nicolae's face flushed when he believed a message was delivered to his soul. "Let others praise you," it said. "Make your gifts available, but exhibit no effort to strive."
It was the wee hours of the morning by the time Cameron finally merged onto I-91 South. Normally it would take him less than half an hour to reach I-95 South and the one hundred ten or so miles that would get him into New Jersey. But the going was slow and treacherous. Cars had slid off the road, some overturned. The occasional snowplow provided something to follow slowly at a safe distance. Cameron did not understand how Dirk could sleep at a time like this. He had to tell himself to loosen his grip, to relax his shoulders, to blink, to breathe.
Anytime Cameron felt a slide or even a hint of fishtailing he let up on the accelerator. He spent another two hours on I-91, and when I-95 finally came into view, he believed he was halfway home. It was hard to imagine he'd be in the car many hours longer.
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Jonathan Stonagal sat up in bed, suddenly awake a few hours before dawn in his Manhattan penthouse. Something was niggling in his brain. Carpathia, his hope for the future. According to Reiche Planchette, the young man was all and more than they could have hoped, except that he was clearly beginning to feel his oats.
Stonagal pushed a button on his bedside table, and within seconds his night-shift valet knocked softly and cracked the door open a couple of inches. "Do something for you, sir?"
"What time is it in Bucharest?" he said.
The valet entered and used the light from the hallway to illuminate his watch. "Late morning, sir."
"Get Fredericka on the phone."
"It's just past four here, Mr. Stonagal."
"I know what time it is here, Benny."
A couple of minutes later Benny informed the billionaire that his secretary was on the line.
