“One reporter vouching for another?” Cheryl said. “Sort of like one con vouching for another con, wouldn’t you say?”
Josh looked down and blinked a couple of times before responding. “Point taken. I’m a sportscaster. But think about it. What possible reason does a sportscaster have for being here tonight? You think reporters have some kind of secret signal they flash whenever they need someone to cover their backside? I’m here because an hour and a half ago I opened my email and found a death watch notice.”
That got Cheryl’s attention.
“I haven’t told anybody yet, not even my parents. I came here tonight because I needed a friend, someone I could talk to, someone I could trust.”
Cheryl touched Josh Leven’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. Josh stepped aside, and she turned to Sydney. “Sydney. I… ”
“Forget it.” Sydney gave her a soft smile.
In a room that smelled of scorched coffee, the two women embraced, as best they could bending over the large bulge between them.
To everyone’s surprise they found the hallway outside the greenroom empty. Neither the ball-cheeked exec nor Skip Hirshberg was on guard as expected.
“Where’s Stacy?” Cheryl asked.
“With Hunz,” Sydney said.
“I’ll go find them,” Josh said.
“They offered me open-ended use of the suite at the Excelsior Hotel if I stayed,” Cheryl said, after Josh had gone.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sydney said.
“When I reminded them that I wouldn’t be alive to take advantage of it, they offered to arrange for my burial at Forest Lawn cemetery. Said they could get me a grave a stone’s throw from Walt Disney, that some network bigwig would give it up for me. They also threw in an amusement park package for little Stacy after I was gone. They said it would cheer Stacy up.”
“Oh, Cheryl, I’m so sorry. That’s how things work here.”
“They didn’t offer me the one thing I wanted.”
“To go home.”
Cheryl smiled. “You do understand, don’t you?”
Men’s voices came down the hallway. Happy sounds, obviously not the studio executives returning.
As Cheryl gathered herself to leave, she said, “Not being in the hallway just now is the first thing they’ve done right all night.”
Hunz and Josh appeared at the end of the hallway with Hunz carrying Stacy. Sydney couldn’t remember the girl’s feet touching the ground all night. Stacy was licking a half-eaten fudgesicle. She wore much of the other half on her face. Hunz Vonner’s suit was stained where she’d laid her head against him. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Oh, honey!” Cheryl cried. “You got Mr. Vonner all dirty!”
A moment later the girl was in Cheryl’s arms being cleaned with a tissue.
“I sent Skip Hirshberg and his fellow barracuda on an errand,” Hunz said. “I hinted Stacy was partial to pistachio ice cream. I think they went to find her some. Then we found the cafeteria .
While Cheryl was occupied cleaning her daughter, with an amused Josh looking on, Sydney pulled Hunz aside. “I don’t have time to take you back to the hotel,” she said. “I have to get Cheryl to the airport. You can call a cab, or perhaps Josh can drop you off.”
Hunz turned serious. “What are your plans?”
Sydney shrugged. “Get them on a plane to Chicago any way I can. Medical emergency. Hardship case. I’ll use my press credentials. Beg. Plead. Bribe. Whatever it takes.”
“Use your feminine wiles,” Josh said, grinning. Apparently he could watch Cheryl and listen at the same time.
“Private joke,” Sydney said to Hunz.
Hunz wasn’t laughing. He turned and walked away. Just before he disappeared around a corner, he pulled out his cell phone. Sydney caught a few words.
“Sol. This is Vonner
She winced. She could expect another angry lecture from Sol in the morning. It angered her that Hunz was acting like a child. Tattletale! Tattletale! But she’d didn’t have time to worry about that right now. She had to get Cheryl and Stacy to the airport.
Cheryl was looking for a trash can to stow a couple wads of chocolate-stained tissues. Stacy’s face was presentable, though there were still a few stubborn smudges on her chin.
Josh offered to take the tissues. Cheryl thanked him and grabbed Stacy’s hand. “We’re ready now,” she said.
Sydney led them toward an exit. “I’ll bring the car around,” she said. “Wait for me at the top of the steps.”
“Can I go with you?” Josh asked. Then, his gaze resting on Cheryl, he added, “That is, if you don’t mind.”
Cheryl smiled shyly. “I’d like that.”
Their gaze lingered noticeably. Under different circumstances, Sydney would have interpreted the exchange as romantic. Reality bludgeoned that thought. Neither Cheryl nor Josh had a future beyond two days. Whatever passed between them was more likely that of two victims sharing a common fate.
All because some egomaniacal Russian general had planted microscopic killing machines in their bloodstreams. To make a statement? To flex his political muscles?
Sydney felt a rage such as she’d never felt before. It was as though she was standing at ground zero of the World Trade Center on 9/11. She could see the planes approaching. She knew what was going to happen, but she was powerless to do anything to stop it. No amount of screaming, no amount of shouting, no amount of anger or rage or tears could prevent the tragedy from happening. And Cheryl and Josh were on the ninety-first floor.
They reached the exit. Sydney shoved the crash bar harder than what was necessary to open it.
In the next instant, a multitude of lights flashed in her face. Camera lights blinded her. A crush of reporters pressed, thrusting microphones in her face. Everyone shouted at once, demanding information about Cheryl, who hadn’t stepped from the building yet, who wouldn’t step from the building if Sydney could help it.
She backpedaled, nearly bowling over Josh and Cheryl, pulling shut the door with all her might. Several hands tried to stop her and got their fingers smashed.
“What do they want from me?” Cheryl cried.
“You’re a hot news story.” Hunz walked up behind them. “Popular game show winner and expectant mother who is also a death watch victim. Sells papers. Raises ratings.”
Cheryl turned to Sydney. “Is there another way out of here?”
“All the exits are covered,” Hunz said.
Josh frowned. “We need a plan.”
“Already taken care of,” Hunz said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The studio door flew open. As before, a staccato burst of lights hit with force. His arm around a red-haired pregnant woman, Hunz lowered his head and plunged into the sea of reporters.
“This isn’t going to deceive anyone,” Sydney said.
“Keep your head down and keep moving,” Hunz shouted over the din.
She did. She was hunched over a well-placed pillow and outfitted with dark glasses and a green scarf, compliments of the studio prop department. A red wig flared with every camera flash.
Hunz straight-armed everyone in his way like a running back headed for the end zone with a faux Cheryl tucked securely under his arm as the ball.
A black limousine split the crowd, its horn blaring, warning foolhardy reporters that they’d better think twice about challenging a couple of tons of metal to a head-on competition. The back door opened just as Hunz and Sydney reached it.
Hunz assisted his charge into the limo, but instead of following her, he turned to face the stormy tide. Looking like Moses parting the Red Sea, Hunz raised both hands over his head. He identified himself.
With someone to record and shoot, the rabble quieted.
“My name is Hunz Vonner, newscaster with EuroNet operating out of Berlin, Germany. Some of you undoubtedly recognize me.”
He couldn’t help himself. Good newscasters have healthy egos, and Hunz Vonner’s was making a public ap
pearance.
“As a guest in your country,” he shouted, “it has been my privilege to observe your media at work, and compare it to the way we do things in Europe. Where I come from, there is an unwritten code of professional courtesy. Accordingly, as a professional courtesy, I request that you honor the exclusive agreement station KSMJ has made with Ms. Cheryl McCormick. I appeal to your sense of honor and dignity as journalists and trust that your example tonight will forge a new era of cooperation between our respective countries. Thank you.”
His speech was a drop of sanity in an ocean of chaos. Hunz ducked into the limo, and it sped off to a chorus of shouts and catcalls.
Beside him, Sydney took off her glasses.
“What was that all about?” she said:
“You didn’t like my speech?”
“Professional courtesy in the media? Really?”
Hunz howled. “Are you kidding? They’re jackals!”
“You lied.”
“And I suppose you never lied to get a story,” Hunz said.
Sydney stared at him.
“No, I guess you never have, have you?” he said. “Doesn’t matter. But I didn’t lie tonight. I said there is such a thing as professional courtesy where I come from, and there is. Just not among journalists.”
“What did you hope to accomplish?” Sydney asked.
“Look out the back window.”
She turned. A serpentine line of vehicles sped after them from the studio parking lot.
“You taunted them into following us,” she said.
Hunz laughed. “Asking for professional courtesy from a pack of reporters is like throwing meat into a shark tank. But that’s not why I did it.”
“Why then?”
Hunz stomped both feet on the floor gleefully, pleased with himself.
Sydney laughed at his exuberance. This was the second time today Sydney saw a hidden side of Hunz Vonner, the first being when he hit it off with Stacy at the hotel.
“There was always the chance some of them would not take the bait,” he said, “that they would suspect some kind of sleight of hand. I know I would. That’s why I instructed Josh and Cheryl to slip out right behind us, during the moment of deception, and not wait for the coast to clear.”
“And your little speech . ,” Sydney said, catching on.
“Extended the moment of deception. It also put me in position to watch them make their getaway. I had to make sure they got away safely.”
“And did they?”
Hunz sat back with a grin. “As they say in the movies, worked like a charm.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
When Sydney and Hunz arrived at Los Angeles International Airport, Josh and Cheryl and Stacy were waiting for them:
Having followed Hunz’s instructions, Josh had steered the Volvo down a side road to hangars that serviced private corporate jets. The guard at the parking lot security booth told Josh he was expecting them. After a cursory check of the Volvo, he directed them to the appropriate hangar and waved them through.
“You should have seen their faces.” Hunz was still laughing as he climbed out of the back of the limo. “Priceless!”
Sydney emerged right behind him. What followed was a breathless duet reenacting the last twenty minutes.
“They followed us all the way to the Excelsior Hotel,” she said.
“Some of them were there waiting for us,” Hunz said.
“After all, it’s no secret Wonder Wheel uses the Excelsior Hotel.”
“She was marvelous,” Hunz said of Sydney. “Inspired.”
“It seemed the natural thing to do,” Sydney said.
Josh grinned widely. “What? What did you do?”
“Well, when we got to the hotel,” Sydney said, “we drove into the drop-off area in front of the lobby doors. Hunz opened the moonroof on the limo.”
“And Sydney stood up so everyone could see her. Naturally, they thought she was Cheryl. They piled out of their vehicles and surrounded the limo, shouting questions, thrusting microphones at her, cameras rolling, strobes flashing.”
Standing next to Josh and holding Stacy, Cheryl listened intently and smiled as the story unfolded.
“It was fun,” Sydney said, glad to see Cheryl smiling again. “I felt like a celebrity wearing those dark glasses.”
“Sydney waved to them, one of those regal, Princess Diana waves,” Hunz said. “Strobe lights were flashing everywhere. Then she removed her glasses and there were fewer flashes. With a flourish, she pulled off the wig, and the flashes stopped altogether.”
“They were stunned,” Sydney said.
“But then,” Hunz cried, “the piece de resistance. A stroke of genius!”
“I pulled the pillow from beneath my blouse… ”
“…and she tossed it to them…”
“…like a bridal bouquet.”
“Then we drove off, leaving them standing there. Stunned. Stunned! Hands down, best time I’ve had in America,” Hunz cried.
“I can’t believe you arranged all of this,” Sydney said, “and in such a short time.”
The Dassault Falcon cruised at thirty-six-thousand feet. A Plexiglas panel doorway separated the section of the plane in which Sydney sat from the boardroom where Cheryl had put Stacy down. The little girl was sleeping on a small sofa, her head beneath a large fern. Cheryl sat on the floor next to her, stroking her bangs. Josh reclined in a conference chair nearby, his feet propped up on the table. His eyes were closed, but it was doubtful he was sleeping.
Hunz closed the Plexiglas door behind him and joined Sydney. Four wide soft leather chairs were arranged in pairs, facing each other. Hunz sat next to Sydney, who was watching Cheryl love her daughter.
“And it was nice of you to invite Josh and me along, though I still don’t understand why you did.” Sydney paused for an explanation. When Hunz didn’t offer one, she said, “I’ve never flown on a private jet before. I’ve never even flown first class, only cattle car coach.”
Hunz slumped back in his chair. He let out a sigh of accomplishment.
“At the studio, you called Sol and arranged things then, didn’t you?” Sydney said. “The limo, the jet, all of it.”
She just couldn’t let it go. The details of the trip. Hunz’s reasoning. They were little niggling worms under her skin.
Hunz closed his eyes. “Being an international celebrity has its perks.”
“You did it for Stacy, didn’t you? You and she have formed quite an attachment.”
Hunz smiled, his eyes still closed.
“What did you promise him?” Sydney asked.
“Who?”
“Sol. He’s not the kind of guy who gives something unless he gets something in return. You promised him something. What?”
Hunz sighed again, obviously a bit agitated at the question. “Does it matter?”
“It depends on what you promised him.”
Hunz turned his head without lifting it to look at her. “An exclusive,” he said. “I offered Sol an exclusive.”
It took a moment for what he said to register. When it did, Sydney bolted upright. She looked at Cheryl, then back at Hunz.
“You scum!” she shouted. “All this time I thought you were rescuing Cheryl from those game show piranha, and you were just saving her for yourself! You’re no better than they are! I take that back. You’re worse!”
“Scum,” Hunz said calmly. “I don’t know that word.”
“Dirtbag. Sleaze. Wretch.”
“Ah, wretch. Now that’s a word I know.”
He didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned by Sydney’s outrage.
Sydney was beside herself. “How could you do such a thing? How could you be so low? Here I thought you were trying to help Cheryl, while all the time you’re setting her up to exploit her!”
“Everything has a price,” Hunz said. “Cheryl wanted to get back to Chicago to deliver her baby. The price of the airfare was an exclusive interview with a death watch victim at
the moment of death—in perfect health one minute, dead the next. Sol liked the idea. Said it would make a splash.”
“I might expect this kind of despicable behavior from Sol, but you? I thought you were better than that.”
Hunz’s face reddened. “Maybe you’ve forgotten who we are. We’re reporters, not a rescue aid society. Reporters report—automobile crashes, burning buildings, natural disasters, murders. Every day people die and we’re there live, broadcasting it to our viewing audience. It’s the nature of our business. And if you don’t know that by now, you’re in the wrong business. If you want to save people, join the Red Cross!”
Sydney sat facing him on the edge of her seat, her hands balled in fists.
“But this is Cheryl!”
Hunz was unmoved. “First rule of journalism: Never compromise your objectivity.”
Sydney glared at him. “Why now? Why Cheryl? We could have done this story with Lyle Vandeveer.”
“Things were different back then.”
The way he said it, back then sounded like it was several decades ago instead of just last night.
“Back then,” Sydney said, “you thought interviewing Mr. Vandeveer was a waste of time.”
“Like I said, things change.”
Sydney studied him. What had changed? It had to be more than just a matter of passing time. Was it the fact that Cheryl was now a game show celebrity? Or was it something else? What else had changed since last night?
“You heard from the FBI,” she said.
Hunz looked away. He said nothing. But he heard her, because his jaw muscles tensed, just like it had in the vomitory when he returned after making a phone call.
After a few moments, he said, “A few hours ago, General Baranov surrendered to FBI agents outside his villa on Barbados.”
“That’s good news, isn’t it? Has he talked? Has he told the FBI where to find Yuri Kiselev?”
Hunz nodded. “Baranov talked.”
“And?”
“He’s not behind Death Watch.”
Death Watch Page 16
