Edge of Apocalypse (11 page)

Gallagher took a couple of gulps from the carton of milk he'd brought with him. It was the only thing that could stop the crushing, burning sensation in his chest. The doctor called it gastric reflux. Jobrelated stress...but that was for the yuppie-types on Wall Street, not for him. Gallagher had his own personal diagnosis and figured the stuff he'd inhaled on 9/11 had finally caught up to him. So he didn't bother filling the prescription. Downing some milk seemed to help. That was good enough.

"Come on," he muttered as he shot a look at his watch. "It's show-time; let's go."

Then he heard Zadernack's footsteps in the hallway. Even paced. Not too fast or too slow. His boss stepped into the room, wearing a dark navy suit and solid nonpatterned tie as usual. And unlike Gallagher's, Zadernack's ties never had any hint of stains from his last chili-dog.

"Morning, John," Miles began in his monotone. "Let's see what you have for us today."

"Teretsky, the talk-radio guy, better known as Ivan the Terrible," Gallagher began. "I videoed my interview with him. Couldn't believe he agreed without a fight. And no lawyer with him either. That was a shocker."

"I see the man enjoys litigation," Miles replied, glancing through Teretsky's investigation file. "They must know him pretty well down at the clerk of the court's office."

"Yeah, I hear they had to build a new wing just to store all the files from his lawsuits," Gallagher quipped.

Miles gave a courteous smile and said, "Says here he sued the NYPD--twice." Then, in an attempt at a colorful exchange, Miles added, "Looks like he'll sue any guy who wears pants."

"Yeah, and some who don't." He didn't want Miles, the posterchild for the humorless, to have the last word on anything, especially one-liners.

Miles closed the file and nodded toward the remote control. Gallagher clicked it and took another gulp of milk.

On the screen, Ivan was sitting in his studio chair. Just before speaking he reached up and pushed the boom microphone out of the way so he could look straight into the eyes of his FBI interrogator.

Ivan was bald-headed with a full black beard and a slightly wild, roaming look in his eyes. Ivan adjusted his dark-rimmed glasses.

"Okay, Mr. FBI man," Ivan began. "You called for this party. So let's p-a-r-t-e-e..."

Gallagher started with the usual drill. He declared for the record that Ivan was giving his permission for the recording. He gave the date, time, and place of the interview, and that Ivan was speaking with him voluntarily and under no coercion or duress and had the right to have an attorney present but had waived that right.

Gallagher chose not to give him his Miranda rights for two reasons. Technically he was simply a witness and not a suspect. But more importantly, he didn't want to light Ivan's fire. At least not yet. Not before they'd even started.

The FBI agent identified the scope of the interview for his interviewee. He told Ivan that they were investigating the North Korean missile crisis and the information Ivan had received regarding the nukes coming toward New York City.

Then Gallagher started into the details of that day. The time Ivan got to the studio that afternoon. The time he first learned about the missiles. And more importantly,
how
he found out about them.

"A telephone call," Ivan said. "It was from some woman."

"Who?"

"She said her first name...like I was supposed to know her or something, which I didn't. Can't recall her name now. I think I blanked it out of my head 'cuz of what she said next."

"Which was?"

"She started talking really intense at me, but not loud, sort of whispering like she didn't want anyone else to hear, and she said, 'Get out of New York now'...or if I couldn't do that then I was supposed to head for the basement. That there were two North Korean missiles heading for Manhattan. Then she hung up."

"You went on the air with the fact that New York was under nuclear attack based on a phone call from some woman you didn't know?"

"'Course not. What, do I look stupid to you? Naw, we then put a call in to a Pentagon contact. He sounded a tad nervous and refused to comment. We made one more phone call, to the woman at the local emergency preparedness office. I posed as an NYPD officer and acted like I knew what was going on...she spilled the beans in two seconds flat."

"Which phone were you at when you got the original call about incoming missiles?"

"The call came directly into the studio line," Ivan said pointing to the phone on his desk.

"Is that the same telephone number the public uses to call into your program?"

"Naw. The public line's a different number. We use this one in the studio for internal stuff. We have our program guests call this number. Also, our tech guys call on that line."

"Do you have any kind of electronic log or caller-ID on that line?"

"Nope. Only on the public line."

"But your tech staff, and any special guests on your show, someone you're going to interview on-air, they would have this studio number?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to see a list of all your guests for the last twelve months," Gallagher requested from the other side of the camera. "And all your tech people. Anybody with access to that number. Let's start there."

"Are you nuts?" Ivan blurted out. He was now sitting perfectly erect in his chair, as if he'd just received a low-voltage electrical charge.

"That's confidential information," Ivan said. "We got rights. My lawyer says we got a journalist's privilege not to disclose information to people like you."

"Tell your lawyer to go back to law school, Ivan," Gallagher fired back. "The guest list is public information because you've already aired it. And probably put it up on your website. Besides, I could get it from the FCC or from your public file. Do you really want to play the legal game with me? I can have you served with a subpoena to appear before a grand jury. Then you can be forced to testify. Unless you want to claim your Fifth Amendment right, that is. So, do you want to claim your right to remain silent because you might incriminate yourself, Ivan? You feeling guilty about the deaths of those New Yorkers who were killed in the melee that happened because you opened your big mouth on the air without talking to us first?"

Ivan exploded. "I don't believe this! You saying I'm a murderer?" The shock jock was now on his feet swearing and screaming at his interrogator and putting his fists to the side of his head like he was doing some kind of bizarre ritual dance.

But Gallagher kept rolling. "Now you don't have to answer my questions. Call your lawyer. We can stop right now. You have that right, Ivan. In the meantime, I'll talk to my lawyers. Only difference is that my federal attorneys have the power to put people in prison. Your attorney, on the other hand, only has the power to send you and your radio station a bill in an amount close to the budget of a small country. So, you wanna rumble? Bring it on..."

Ivan kept on sputtering. What the video was not catching was the look on Gallagher's face off-camera, grinning at the out-of-control talk-show host. Finally, Ivan started to collect himself. Then he pointed to the camera and shouted, "Turn that thing off!"

The picture went dark.

"What happened next?" Miles asked. Gallagher knew his boss and recognized in his voice that strained attempt to keep cool.

Gallagher reached into his briefcase, took out a substantial pile of papers, and tossed them onto the table.

"All the names and addresses of each guest on Ivan's talk show for the past year. Plus the contact information for the station's tech staff."

"Your approach is not protocol," Miles said matter-of-factly, but his eyes were closing nervously as he spoke. "You know the standard procedure. You go to the U.S. attorney's office. They go to the DOJ and get permission for a subpoena to the telephone company for a listing of the telephone calls to Mr. Teretsky's studio. Set a court date. The telephone company responds--"

"My way's quicker."

Miles pointed at the video screen. "I don't like what I just saw," he warned. "I'll have to decide whether I write you up because of this."

"Miles, think about it. We can still get a subpoena if you want. As this investigation continues--"

"If this investigation continues," Miles threatened with a little less monotone than usual. Then he stood up. "Please secure that videotape in the evidence room," he demanded and turned to leave.

Gallagher was stunned. He had to chew on that for a minute while he remained in his chair. Finally he reached over and snatched up the papers off the table. He couldn't believe what his boss was suggesting. That the FBI would actually drop an investigation into leaked information which compromised national security.

Come on, Miles, what's going on here?

EIGHTEEN

Davos, Switzerland

Two entire floors of the Hotel Belvedere had been rented by Caesar Demas to accommodate the large staff that operated his private foundation. For his own comfort, though, the billionaire had secured a sprawling villa in the nearby mountains. He was a man who loved quiet whenever possible. And on the day before the start of his organization's fifth annual World Peace Summit, he had a lot of thinking to do.

Demas, with his neatly trimmed beard and carefully managed salt-and-pepper hair, stood on the massive veranda with a cup of mint tea in his hand. The view of the Alps was stunning, to be sure, but that particular moment, he wasn't contemplating the scenery.

That afternoon Demas was expecting a visitor who might be able to help move him, maybe, just a little closer to his ultimate goal.

He had not yet finished his tea when Alexi, Demas's longtime administrative chief, entered the security foyer of the villa's private quarters, along with the visitor from the U.S. State Department, and pressed the buzzer signaling their arrival.

Using a remote, Demas unlocked the door. He gave a warm welcome to his guest, while Alexi simultaneously vanished from the room.

Strolling out onto the veranda, Demas made small talk with Mr. Burke until he sensed that it was time for business. Then he jumped right to the point.

"I was very happy to hear that Secretary of State Danburg will be addressing our peace conference. Has he arrived?"

"He has. We traveled together. The accommodations are greatly appreciated. Secretary Danburg should be settled into his suite shortly after our security people complete their sweep."

"I was hoping to be able to get a sense of his remarks."

"We knew you would," Burke replied with a smile and handed Demas an envelope. "Here's a draft of his speech. I had the privilege of working on it with him. We're asking that it remain embargoed until thirty minutes prior to his remarks tomorrow afternoon."

"Of course," Demas said courteously. He understood the rules. He opened the envelope and began to scan the draft. After a minute, Demas looked up.

"There is a strong implication here," Demas responded tapping the printed speech with his finger, "that the United States might be willing to initiate a unilateral offer to share some of its weapons technology, in the hopes of obtaining what you refer to as 'the hope of universal deterrence.'"

"Yes, in the interests of peace," Burke replied. "Mr. Demas, the administration also wants you to know that we recognize the fact that you've been a good friend to the Corland administration. When the rest of the world was denouncing our use of the RTS weapon system, I know you consulted with U.N. Secretary General Beragund on our behalf. The secretary general's conciliatory remarks regarding the United States were deeply appreciated by President Corland. I am certain you played a primary role in making that happen."

"America is a key player in our hopes for global peace. Anything I can do to help, just ask. And yet..."

The envoy from the State Department listened carefully for Demas to finish his thought.

"And yet," Demas continued, "if the United States is willing to seriously consider sharing its weapon technology with other nations, then the question remains..."

"Yes?"

"Which weapons systems are we specifically referring to?"

"Of course, that's a key question," Burke replied, eyeing his host closely.

"For instance, would the United States be willing to share its RTS technology?"

For the next few moments there was dead silence. Burke's expression showed a lack of surprise. He knew where this was going. But he had to avoid jumping in too quickly. He was certainly not about to reveal any details about President Corland's willingness to negotiate an international credit-for-weapons trade.

Caesar Demas was a master at getting to the core of an issue, while maintaining a perfect poker-face demeanor. There wasn't an ounce of emotion on his face. Nothing to reveal just how important the RTS weapons system was to Demas's ultimate mission.

Finally Mr. Burke responded. "There may be the potential for dialogue on that subject, yes. Which is why we are bringing this subject up with you first. Rather than using the usual official diplomatic avenues of exploration, we thought we'd approach you directly. Here at the conference. As you can imagine, this is a tremendously sensitive issue."

"Yes, of course," Demas agreed. "Using the formal diplomatic methods between nations can be clumsy. And so very public. And if things don't work out...it could be an embarrassment to your administration. With me, on the other hand, I can act as an unofficial envoy for your position. I can do some investigation regarding the sharing of the RTS system with those nations that could provide economic and trade assistance to the United States. I could test the waters...find out its net value. I can work a lot of that through the U.N. And if my efforts fail, and the press gets a hold of it,...you can just denounce me to the media as some kind of nosey busybody!"

Burke and Demas shared a polite laugh. Finally the State Department official extended his hand to the billionaire. "I think we have an understanding," Burke said.

"At the same time," Demas added with a note of hesitation, "I am aware that the designer of the RTS system, a former Air Force pilot, is engaged in a dispute with Congress. A brazen act, if you ask me...refusing to divulge his design to his own government. Are you sure that the specifications for his weapon system will be available to share with other nations at some point?"