“Well, at least we can get comfortable,” Bowtie said. “And we promise not to take up more than a few minutes of your time.”
Moustache did his hospitable wave at the sofas again, so Meehan sat back down where he'd been, and they took the sofa facing him over the square Formica coffee table.
Bowtie pulled a little machine from his jacket pocket, saying, “Mind if I tape this?”
“Yes,” Meehan said.
Bowtie seemed surprised, but then shrugged, put the machine away, pulled out his notepad instead, and said, “Well, I'll just take notes, then.”
“No,” Meehan said.
Now Bowtie was truly surprised. “You don't want me to take notes?”
“No.”
Moustache said, “Mr. Meehan, an accurate record is to your advantage.”
“No, it isn't,” Meehan said. “No record at all is to my advantage. What do you want?”
They looked at one another, both shrugged, and Moustache took over, saying, “Essentially, all we want from you is confirmation of a rumor.”
Meehan was about to tell him what he could do with his rumor when, over their shoulders, through the street entrance, he saw Jeffords coming in.
Would they know Jeffords by sight? Why not, he was part of the Campaign Committee. To keep these two concentrated on him, and to give Jeffords a chance to get the hell out of sight, Meehan said, “Well, I'll listen. I don't promise anything.”
“Of course not,” Moustache said. He and Bowtie had little smiles on their faces at all times, as though they knew just a tiny bit more than anybody else in the world and really got a kick out of being who they were.
Halfway across the lobby, Jeffords saw the trio on the sofas, and recoiled like a kitten from a snake. His wide-eyed expression fastened on Meehan as though to say, “How could you betray me like this?” while Meehan did his best to keep his own concentration fixed on Moustache and Bowtie.
“The rumor is,” Moustache was saying, “that the CC is planning some sort of dirty trick against the challenger, some October Surprise, and that you were plucked from a federal penitentiary to be a part of it.”
Yeah, that was the press, in a nutshell. Get everything almost right, but nothing actually right at all. It was the Other Side that planned the October Surprise, and the MCC wasn't a federal penitentiary. But it was close enough to do the job, right?
While Jeffords, across the way, finally realized he should stop semaphoring betrayal and start scampering for the elevators, Meehan said, “I think you must have me confused with some other Francis Xavier Meehan. I have absolutely no federal convictions anywhere, you could look that up, and they wouldn't put me in a federal can unless they convicted me of a federal crime, like making war on Portugal or mailing a letter without a stamp.”
Bowtie, smirk undiminished, said, “Mr. Meehan, are you going to claim you have not been at meetings with Bruce Benjamin and Pat Jeffords of the CC?”
“Sure I saw them,” Meehan said. (Jeffords jittered, way over there, in front of a closed elevator door.) “The truth is, I used to live a life of crime, some little while ago, but now I'm rehabilitated, and I'm doing job interviews. Benjamin and Jeffords thought the Other Side might be planning some kind of dirty trick, and wondered if I had any talents that could help them.” (Another use of the rule that you should always tell the truth, with codicils, like the one upcoming.) “Unfortunately, I wasn't any use to them, so I'm still looking for work. Why don't you guys hire me?”
They smirked at one another, as Jeffords at last popped into an elevator and the door slid shut behind him. Moustache said, “Us hire you? To do what, Mr. Meehan?”
“Break into hotel rooms for you,” Meehan said. “Like, I wouldn't leave a lot of fingerprints up there, or a bribed desk clerk down here that'll fold the first time a cop frowns at him.”
“Oh, come on,” Moustache said.
Meehan waved the little business cards. “You could hire me, or I could put in a complaint. You broke into my room.”
“You won't do that,” Bowtie said.
Meehan grinned at him. “That's cause you think I'm tied up with Benjamin and Jeffords, and so I don't want to make any waves, so you were safe to bust into my room just to see if you could find anything in there to tell you what's going on. But I'm not tied up with anybody at all, I'm just a guy looking for a job. So maybe you could give me a job with you guys, or I could prepare my lawsuit against your paper by calling the cops.”
Moustache permitted himself to look stern. “It could be to your advantage to have a friend in the press, Mr. Meehan,” he said.
Meehan said, “Does anybody actually have a friend in the press? Aren't you guys just halfway up the ladder, kissing the ass above you and kicking the face below you?”
They stood, as one man, like a drill team. “I hope you won't be sorry,” Bowtie said, “that you decided to take this attitude toward us.”
“As to your calling the police,” Moustache said, “I'll hold my credibility up against a convicted felon any day.”
Meehan laughed; he couldn't help it. “Credibility!” he cried. “Mary wept! Credibility!”
The press departed, shoulders squared, and Meehan went up to the room to see that Jeffords had, of course, caused his message light to start blinking. He deleted without listening; let the jerk stew until morning.
40
“I DIDN'T KNOW what to think,” Jeffords said.
“Sure you did,” Meehan said. “You thought I was selling you out to some reporters.”
“You all looked so cosy together there,” Jeffords explained.
“You're right,” Meehan said. “What I should of done, I should of stood up and shouted, ‘Don't worry, Mr. Jeffords, I'm not saying a thing about you.’”
“No, no, you were right.” Jeffords ate scrambled egg, and toyed with his coffee cup. “I just wish you'd called me last night.”
“I was sleepy,” Meehan told him, and ate a piece of bacon.
It was six-fifty in the morning, and they were in the Crowne Royale's coffee shop, along with a few solitary salesmen and army recruits. “I barely slept at all,” Jeffords said, “not knowing.”
“You can sleep on the drive,” Meehan told him, looking across the coffee shop and out its front window. “I think that's our car.”
Jeffords turned, crouched, craned to see. “He's early.”
“Good, let's get out of here.”
Their waiter was a young Hispanic suffering from expression deficit disorder. Jeffords waved at him, doing the signing-in-air gesture that means bring-my-bill, and he brought it. Since he looked mostly like his own death mask, but with its eyes open, he was hard to face directly. Fortunately, he immediately went away again, and Jeffords pushed the bill toward Meehan, saying, “I checked out, so you'll have to put it on your room.”
Meehan added a tithe and a signature and his room number and said, “You're getting your wallet, you can give it to me in cash. Fourteen bucks.”
“Prices in New York,” Jeffords said.
When they went outside, the man taking his chauffeur's cap off at the wheel of the limo was, surprisingly enough, Bruce Benjamin. Rolling his window down, he said, “Hello, you chaps. I suppose one of you wants to drive. I find it looks better if one wears the cap.”
“I'll drive,” Meehan said.
Climbing out of the limo, Benjamin said, “Pat and I'll ride in back.”
Meehan said, “Since when are you coming along?”
“Just for a little chat,” Benjamin assured him. “You can drop me off anywhere.”
Jeffords was already sliding into the back seat, but Meehan said to Benjamin, “Chat about what?”
“Well, first, what you and Ms. Goldfarb did for Pat yesterday was amazing. Well above and beyond. My congratulations to you both.”
Uncomfortable, Meehan shrugged and said, “We're used to having him around.”
“Then,” Benjamin said, “when Pat called me last night…”
“I get it. Climb aboard.”
They all boarded, and Meehan put on the cap, which fit pretty well. He adjusted the mirror so he could see the two back there, Benjamin giving Jeffords his wallet and watch. “Don't forget my fourteen bucks,” Meehan said.
“I won't.”
Meehan put the car in gear, drove to the first red light, stopped, and said, “You want to know what happened last night.”
“Yes, please,” Benjamin said.
“I'll tell you,” Meehan said, and started them forward as the light turned green. “But then, you know, I've been thinking about it, and I'm glad you're here, because I got some questions of my own, and it would be tougher to get answers just from Jeffords.”
Benjamin said, “But do clear up last night for me first, please.”
“I was out to dinner—”
“With Elaine Goldfarb,” Jeffords interjected.
Even at this distance, in the little mirror, by dawn's early light, Meehan could see Benjamin's eyebrows raise, as he murmured, “Oh?”
Meehan took the right at the next corner and headed for the West Side Highway. “When I got home—alone—those two bozos were in my room. So I left them there and went down to the lobby—”
“Excuse me,” Benjamin said. “You left them there? In your room?”
“There's two of them,” Meehan said, “they're already in there, I got nothing in there they can't look at, or even take away with them, and I'm not in a mood for conversation, so I left.”
“Unorthodox,” Benjamin commented, “but I've remarked that in you before.”
“Well,” Meehan said, “by the time they followed me down to the lobby, I'd figured out they were reporters. I was just about to tell them to take a hike when Jeffords walked in. I knew Jeffords didn't want them to see him, so I kept talking to the guys until he finally cleared out.”
“I had to wait for the elevator,” Jeffords pointed out.
“After you got done staring at me for half an hour,” Meehan told him. “Anyway, they got something, but they don't know what it is. They know I already met with you two, so there's some more of that famous security of yours. They said they were following up on a rumor that you guys were planning an October Surprise for the Other Side, and you got me out of a federal penitentiary, which is two wrong for two, but still, it means they know there's something out there. They're in the ballpark. They're not in the game yet, but they are in the ballpark.”
“I know those two,” Benjamin said, not sounding happy about it. “They may have the wrong end of the stick at this point, but they do have hold of the stick, and they know they have it, and they're not likely to give up.”
Jeffords said, “Bruce, by this afternoon it won't matter. And I really don't believe they'll get the entire situation doped out before then.”
“And they're not trailing us right now,” Meehan said, with another look at his outside mirror.
Benjamin accepted that, but Jeffords said, “What?” and twisted around to look out back.
Benjamin said, gently, “Pat, he says they're not behind us.”
“Well, I hope not,” Jeffords said, facing front again, shooting his cuffs.
One final red light turned green, and Meehan steered the limo onto the West Side Highway. He'd driven trucks bigger than this, but never anything exactly like this; a car, but far too long. It was like driving a tunnel. The outside mirrors, left and right, showed him the world, but the inside mirror showed him the tunnel. Looking in it, he said, “Can I ask my question now?”
“Of course,” Benjamin said.
“Those reporters aren't gonna work things out today,” Meehan said, “but sooner or later they'll figure it out, and they'll figure out what my job was. Which means I gotta know, after all, what I'm doing here.”
They were both surprised back there. Benjamin said, “But you do know, Francis, you've known all along.”
“I'm going to get the package,” Meehan said, “and I'm gonna turn it over to you.”
“That's right,” Benjamin said.
“The package,” Meehan said, “is a videotaped confession and some documents, you told me that down in North Carolina.”
“Exactly,” Benjamin said.
“Everything's been fine up till now,” Meehan said, “but now there's press in it, that means publicity—”
“We certainly hope not,” Benjamin said.
“I don't trust hope,” Meehan told him. “So maybe I'll do this thing for you, and maybe I won't—”
“We have a deal!” Jeffords cried.
“Sue me,” Meehan suggested. “I'm in a different position now from when you got me out of the MCC—”
“We,” Benjamin pointed out, “are the reason for that different position.”
“I know that,” Meehan said. “You're great guys, I wouldn't be drivin this limo without you. But does this confession and these documents mean even more trouble, so after I go get them and give them to you am I gonna find myself stuck in whatever's worse then the MCC?”
“Of course not, Francis,” Benjamin said.
“I'm glad to hear you say that,” Meehan said, “but I'd like to hear more.”
“For God's sake, Francis,” Jeffords cried, “don't you trust us?”
Meehan let that sentence bounce around the tunnel back there awhile, and then he said, “Mr. Benjamin, you're closer to him than I am, would you answer that?”
“I believe the question was rhetorical,” Benjamin said.
“Declarative,” Jeffords suggested.
“Perhaps even idiotic,” Benjamin said. “But I do take your point, Francis, and I believe you're right. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but it has.”
“You're gonna tell me what's in the package,” Meehan said.
Benjamin's sigh could be heard way up here at the front of the tunnel. “I'm afraid I am,” he said.
41
“IF YOU DON'T mind,” Benjamin began, “I'd like to pave the way, give you a little background here.”
“Sure.”
“What we're talking about is the Middle East.” Benjamin paused, leaned forward a little, and said, “You have heard of the Middle East.”
“Sure,” Meehan said, doubtfully. Most of the traffic was southbound, coming into the city, so Meehan had the northbound lanes mostly to himself.
“Well, what we have in the Middle East,” Benjamin went on, “is a group of little countries that really ought to be one big bloc, but they aren't. One religion, one language, one common enemy, but it isn't enough. They don't like one another, they don't trust one another, they're like a dysfunctional family.”
“They are a dysfunctional family,” Jeffords said.
“That, too,” Benjamin said. “Also, some of them are rich, with oil, and some of them are poor.”
“With sand,” Jeffords said.
“So, geopolitically,” Benjamin said, “what we do is, we deal with them as best we can.”
Meehan said, “Because you want their oil, I know that much.”
“Naturally,” Benjamin said. “If they didn't have oil, they could go lose themselves, like the Guatemalans. But they do have oil—”
“Some of them,” Jeffords said.
“And some of the ones that do,” Benjamin continued, “are sometimes in alliances with some of the ones that don't, and sometimes not.”
Steering around a slow-moving sightseer, Meehan said, “Is this gonna go on long?”
“The point is,” Benjamin said, speaking more rapidly, “for stability in the region, and sometimes for a friendly vote at the UN, sometimes we help one of them here, sometimes we help another one there. Now to the specifics.”
“Okay,” Meehan said. The limo had an E-Z Pass box on the windshield, up behind the mirror, so he only had to pause at the tollbooths.
“In this region,” Benjamin said, as the tollbooths slid by, “there are two countries, neighbors, who don't get along very well. I'd rather not mention any names here.”
“But neither of them is Egypt or Israel,” Jeffords said, “so it's nothing to do with those guys.”
“Though they'd love to know about this, God knows,” Benjamin said.
“And we'd hate it,” Jeffords said.
“Yes. In any event, of these other two countries, the one with the oil is usually not a friend of ours—”
“Uppity pricks,” Jeffords said.
“And the one without the oil,” Benjamin went on, “usually is a friend of ours.”
“Needy pricks,” Jeffords said.
“But there came a time, not long ago,” Benjamin said, “when we needed a favor from the unfriendly one. What we offered they didn't want, and it was a moment, the other country at that time was being just a little too neutral, getting up our nose, so POTUS finally said, the hell with it, show them the SLAR.”
Meehan said, “Wait a minute. I remember POTUS. What's the other one, secretary of labor?”
“No, no,” Benjamin said. “SLAR is Side Looking Aerial Reconnaissance, it's airborne radar, it bounces at a slant off the earth, it shows amazing details.”
Jeffords said, “You can find sunken vessels, lost mines, underground streams.”
“Pretty good,” Meehan said.
“Well, what we had,” Benjamin said, “from the SLAR, that neither of those countries knew about, was another little lake of oil. It was deeper than the other deposits around there, neither of them had discovered it yet, and we'd known about it for three or four years, keeping it as a hole card, use it when it's useful.”
Meehan said, “A lake of oil. Where?”
Benjamin said, “Under both countries.”
Jeffords said, “Whichever one finds out about it, sucks it all up.”
Meehan said, “So your president said, give it to the rich guys?”
“At that moment,” Benjamin said, “we needed the rich guys.”
Jeffords said, “And the poor guys were being just a little too neutral, if they're going to be that poor.”
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