by Nina Mason
“What now?” Thea asked anxiously.
“We can either ditch the recorder and come back for it later—assuming we get away—or we can get the hell out of Dodge.”
“I’m for the latter,” she said.
That was his preference, too. But there was a problem: How was he going to hot-wire a car without any tools? That was when he saw the answer: a little green maintenance cart parked next to the elevator. On the back, like a godsend, was a big shiny red toolbox.
Chapter 18
Thea set the recorder on the console between the two front seats and flipped the play button. There was a loud hiss. Below the white noise, she could just make out the low murmur of a voice.
“Jesus wept,” Buchanan moaned, shifting his hands on the steering wheel, “is it all like that?”
“It gets better,” she assured him. “Just wait.”
They were just outside Philadelphia on Interstate 95 in a pearl blue 2002 Honda Accord. Not knowing what else to do or where to go, they were heading back toward New York. For now, they had eluded the men in the black van.
An Englishman’s voice rose above the hiss. “Where would you like me to begin?”
“Start with your name,” a man with a faint Pakistani accent answered. “For the record.”
“That’s my grandfather,” she volunteered, realizing Buchanan had probably never heard Frank Aslan speak before.
“My name is Malcolm Connolly,” the first man said.
Swallowing, Thea looked at Buchanan. Her grandfather must have spoken with the Atlas CEO just before he was killed.
“And why are you speaking to me today?” Aslan asked.
“I want them stopped,” Connolly replied.
“Whom do you mean?”
“The Babylon Group,” he said. “Azi Zahhak and his investors, including Milo Osbourne. They claim they want global unity—ideological heterogeneity for the sake of world peace—so they’re buying up all the media they can and using Lippmann’s theories to bring about unification.”
She clicked off the tape and looked at Buchanan, feeling utterly stupefied. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
His gaze flicked toward her. “Which part?”
“When he says Lippmann’s theories, does he mean Walter Lippmann, the journalist who founded The New Republic?”
He took a minute to light a cigarette while she waited for his answer on the edge of her seat. “In addition to being a journalist, Lippmann was a top presidential adviser to Woodrow Wilson,” he began at last. “He also published several seminal books on public opinion and how easily it could be manipulated through propaganda campaigns.”
He paused to take a drag and blow it out.
“Go on,” she prodded impatiently.
He gave her a sharp look before continuing: “Basically, his books detailed the cognitive limitations human beings face in making sense of the world. The brain, you see, can only process so many stimuli at a time, so it develops shortcuts—generalized stereotypes and assumptions, if you will—that help us make sense of things we can’t fully comprehend.”
“What you’re talking about sounds like the messaging George Lakoff talks about in his books.”
George Lakoff was a progressive linguist who’d written Don’t Think of an Elephant and The Political Mind, among other works, and founded the now-defunct Rockridge Institute, a think tank aimed at helping Democrats reframe the floundering liberal platform.
“Exactly,” he said. “Only Lakoff calls them frames, while Lippmann calls them the pictures in our head. Both refer to the lens through which the human brain perceives and processes all that’s happening around it.” He took a puff of his cigarette before going on. “Both assert that public opinion is based not on rational consideration of fact, but on our fictional assumptions—assumptions that are vulnerable to manipulation. In the wrong hands, the media could deliberately shape and reinforce these assumptions, creating a dangerously myopic worldview—a worldview supporting a particular agenda.”
“What you’re talking about sounds like brainwashing on a mass scale,” she said, feeling an inner burst of outrage.
“That’s exactly what it is,” he said. “And it isn’t purely theoretical. Look around. Listen to the GOP buzzwords—tort reform, death tax, welfare queen—they’re all cognitively loaded. And not by accident. Tune into Con News on any given day. The conservatives are putting theory into practice—creating and reinforcing a particular party line. A fundamentalist party line. And using the Spiral of Silence to discourage dissident voices. Just like the Saudis. Though I doubt they see it that way.”
Thea was speechless. The implications of what he was saying were almost too horrifying to fathom.
He flicked a glance at her. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?”
“What is?” she asked, squinting back at him.
“The theories were developed by progressives, but it’s the conservatives who’ve put them into practice.”
“I’m guessing that’s because the conservatives are better organized and have more money.”
“Exactly,” he said, still looking grave. “Now, how about putting the tape back on, eh? I’d like to hear the rest.”
As she flipped the switch, the Englishman was saying, “The Babylon Group has been working quietly for decades—recruiting investors, building alliances, buying up media, mounting hostile takeovers when necessary, and endorsing and funding candidates who support their agenda.”
“What you’re saying sounds preposterous, incomprehensible,” Aslan said.
“And yet, it’s chillingly real,” Connolly insisted. “Trust me on this, professor. The global village is closer than you think. And its chiefs want to put an end to free thinking.”
She recognized the reference to Marshall McLuhan, whose theories on media she’d studied back in her mass communications classes at Georgia State. McLuhan, a Canadian scholar, foresaw the rise of the Internet almost thirty years before its invention. In the early 1960s, he wrote that print culture, which promoted individualism, would one day be replaced by “electronic interdependence,” which would give rise to a collective identity with a tribal base. Humankind’s initial reaction to this shift, he predicted, would be terror in the form of knee-jerk nationalism—exactly what was now happening all over the world. Eventually, though, the world would become one great hybrid melting pot. A heterogenic global village not unlike the one The Babylon Group was trying to build.
She shot an uneasy glance at Buchanan, wanting to say more about it, but he was preoccupied all of a sudden with the rearview mirror.
“Turn it off,” he said, looking grim. “We’ve got company.”
Flooded with adrenaline, she flipped off the recorder and glanced out the back window. Sure enough, the black van was behind them, coming up fast.
Buchanan hit the gas. The Honda kicked and surged forward.
“What are we going to do?”
“Our only hope is to disable their car,” he said. “And to pray they’ve been ordered to take us alive. Otherwise, we don’t stand a chance.”
“Ordered by whom?”
“Azi Zahhak, I’ll wager. Or one of his cronies.”
“Not Milo Osbourne?”
He shot her a look. “Did I say that?”
“You still think he’s involved? Even after what Connolly said?”
“He owns a ten-percent interest in Babylon,” he said, looking grim. “Need I say more?”
Enough talk. She took a bracing breath, pulled out her gun, and checked the clip, keeping one eye on the van. As it got closer, she saw the men inside. They looked the same. Squinting, she strained harder to see. Jesus, were they twins? And where was Riley Witherspoon? If he was still with them, she couldn’t see him.
“Use mine,” Buchanan said, handing over his Glock. “It’s got more fire-power.”
She took the Glock, lowered the window, and leaned out, holding her breath as she took careful aim.
Blam.
The shot went awry.
The man in the passenger seat stuck his arm out the window, returning her fire with a torrent of bullets from something resembling an Uzi. Thea ducked behind the seat just as the rear window exploded, spraying the backseat with safety glass granules.
“Shit,” she said. “He’s got a fucking machine gun.”
Staying down, she peered around the seat, took aim, and squeezed off another round. Blam, blam, blam. The van swerved sharply, tires squealing.
Seeing her chance, she fired again.
The front tire on the passenger side burst. As the van careened, the shooter fired again. Bullets whizzed past her head, cracking the Honda’s windshield.
The crippled van began to slow while the wounded Honda sped on.
“See if there’s a map in the glove compartment,” Buchanan barked.
She set the gun on her lap and rifled through the contents: napkins, catsup packets, sun glasses, the owner’s manual, and, finally—Eureka!—a map of Pennsylvania. She hurriedly unfolded it across her lap.
“We need to get off this road,” he said, throwing a glance her way. “Before they carjack the next driver who comes along.”
She studied the map, blood pounding in her ears, trying to figure out where they were and what to do.
“What makes you think any road is safe?”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that we go for another stroll through the countryside.”
She fixed him with a steely gaze. “I’m suggesting, smart-ass, that we stop somewhere out of the way and try to get word to Lapdog, let him know what we have, and see if he can do something to help for a change.”
* * * *
A few minutes later, when the journalists reached the Turnpike, Thea suggested they go east and head back into Pennsylvania, as a ploy to throw the assassins off their trail. Her theory was that the men in the van would expect them to keep moving east, toward New York. It sounded good to Buchanan, so he made the turn.
After driving for several more miles, he pulled off the highway and drove south through the backwater, ending up in someplace called Willow Grove, a sleepy community with tree-lined streets and lots of brick colonials. They cruised around, looking for a Starbucks or some other place advertising free Wi-Fi. When they passed a tuxedo rental and bridal shop, he remembered the call from Helene. (Although the unconscious association bedeviled him.) He cast a tentative glance toward Thea. This definitely wasn’t the time to get into a discussion about their relationship. Besides, he still had a lot of thinking to do about what was on that disk. And what he ought to do about it.
* * * *
Georgi Aminov, sitting beside Ivan in a sedan commandeered at gunpoint from a couple of middle-aged tourists, was so enraged he was damn near foaming at the mouth. Not only had the targets escaped, they had also ruined his client’s custom van—failures for which he would be made to answer. Worse yet, he’d been bested by a woman—something his male ego refused to allow. Someday, he would catch that kurva and make her pay. No woman was going to make him look foolish. Not even his Tatyana. As much as he loved his wife, there had been times when he needed to remind her to show her husband the respect he deserved.
It broke his heat to beat her, to leave ugly marks on that beautiful face of hers. Why did she insist on defying him, on forcing him to hurt her—to hurt them both?
Yes, it pained him to beat his wife, but it would give him only pleasure to teach that Americanski bitch not to mess with a man like Georgi Asimov. First, however, he needed to find that stupid kurva—not that, between his police scanner and Google Earth, it wouldn’t be a cinch.
* * * *
The journalists didn’t find a Starbucks until they reached the outskirts of a place called Jenkintown. Buchanan was inside, parked at a table near the window, feeling angstful as he watched the screen on Thea’s laptop, waiting for the wireless connection to engage. She was sitting out front in the car with the engine running. He felt bad about leaving her on her own, especially when the night was growing cold, but what choice did he have? With so many people around, he couldn’t risk doing anything as suspicious as jacking another ignition. They needed to find another car, but it would have to wait until they found a more out-of-the-way place. He only hoped nobody found them in the meantime.
When he was finished here, they were going to find a motel with a wireless network, and maybe have a quick nap. Both were worn to a frazzle. It felt reckless to keep driving around in that bloody Honda, praying they wouldn’t run into a cop or, worse, someone looking to shoot at them. It could be hours before Lapdog got back to him, if he responded at all. Better, he reasoned, to hide out somewhere they both could get some rest.
He checked the time on his BlackBerry. It was well after eight. Was the source still online? Maybe not, but what the hell? He might as well give it a few minutes, just in case. He threw another anxious glance through the window at Thea, who appeared to be deep in thought. He watched her for a moment with heaviness in his heart. He still hadn’t told her about the conversation with Helene and was starting to wonder if he ought to. After all, was there really any point in starting something now? The way things were going, their chances of surviving this ordeal fell somewhere between slim and none.
Still, he had feelings for her, didn’t he? Deeper feelings than he was ready to own. Feelings that made him fear for her as well as make him wonder if he’d be able to resist her when they got to that motel. As tired as he was, he couldn’t stop thinking about how incredible she looked standing there in nothing but her underwear.
But was he ready to give their relationship the green light?
On the screen in front of him, a small window popped up in the bottom right corner. Excellent. The wireless network had engaged. Hurriedly, he fired up the browser, directed it to The Voice, and signed in. After scrolling to the comments box, he typed a brief message and hit “submit.” He refreshed the screen and reviewed his post:
Posted by Editor
We need to talk asap.
* * * *
Thea felt on edge as she sat in the Honda waiting for Buchanan to return. Clearly, what was on the tape was worth killing for, but was it also worth dying for? Her grandfather obviously thought so. And so did Buchanan. They were a lot alike, she realized now that she’d stopped to think about it. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Both were men of integrity and high ideals. Both were immigrants who came to America seeking a better life. Both were free thinkers who cherished the protections afforded by the First Amendment. And both were willing to fight to the death for what they believed in.
Remembering her grandfather made her feel hollow inside. Where was he? Was he still alive? Was he being tortured? She hoped not, but wouldn’t put it past whoever might have taken him. The stakes, she realized now, were higher than she ever could have dreamed.
The corporate takeover of the media and the destruction of personal freedoms wasn’t the result of blind ambition and greed, as she’d long suspected. Rather, it was a carefully orchestrated plot—a conspiracy that permeated all three branches of government. Even if they could write a story that exposed the scheme, could what was lost ever be restored? She honestly couldn’t see how.
A feeling of hopelessness crept over her as the words of John Adams rang inside her head: Liberty, once lost, is lost forever.
Looking through the window, she could see Buchanan at one of the tables, working on her laptop. Watching him, she felt the swelling warmth of deep affection. There was no point in denying her feelings any longer. She was in love with him. Deeply and hopelessly. And had been for longer than she cared to admit.
Chapter 19
Lapdog, having just read Buchanan’s communiqué, rose from his desk and turned toward the window. So, they were still alive. And, given the tone of the message, they’d located the recording. Good. He’d been counting on them not only to help him make the world safe for democracy once again, but also to restore his flagging faith in the American wa
y. As corny as it sounded, it was true.
He didn’t know what Aslan had learned—only that he’d interviewed Malcolm Connolly shortly before he was killed. He was willing to bet Milo Osbourne and Azi Zahhak had a hand in the murders, but proving it was another matter. Only he knew what Connolly was doing in Washington, D.C. that night. At the time of his murder, he had been on his way to a secret rendezvous. The Atlas CEO knew of the assistant U.S. attorney’s enduring interest in The Babylon Group and had something to tell him—something of monumental importance. What that something was went with him to his grave—unless he’d first disclosed it to Frank Aslan.
Lapdog glanced at the file on his desk. It had to be at least six inches thick. And yet, it told him next to nothing about The Babylon Group and its investors—beyond the fact that Zahhak held the controlling interest and that Milo Osbourne owned a ten-percent share.
He’d been counting on Connolly’s testimony to anchor his case against the cartel. Connolly, too, wanted them stopped, he’d said on the phone that day. They arranged to meet somewhere private—somewhere free from eavesdropping. “Lapdog” was to come alone, sans cell phone, car, or any type of traceable device.
“These guys are crafty and dangerous,” Connolly had told him. “I can’t be too careful.”
Additionally, the publisher was not to be quoted. Anything he disclosed had to be verified by another source. Lapdog readily agreed. And why not? It promised to be the antitrust bust of the century. But, regrettably, when the appointed hour arrived, he stood alone in the shadows of that parking garage. After finally giving up on Connolly, he walked back to his office feeling betrayed and defeated. It was only later that he learned of the murder, though he still couldn’t make sense of the weird M.O. Why mark him with a Z? What could it mean?
