The Tin Man (22 page)

* * * *

Milo Osbourne held tight to the metal rail as he scaled the airstairs leading to the cabin of his private plane—an 807-square-foot Boeing Business Jet. At sixty-eight, climbing stairs wasn’t as easy as it used to be, but—thanks to the best team of personal trainers and physical therapists money could buy—he was still spry enough to manage the task unaided.

In the doorway, he paused to flick a miniscule piece of lint off the lapel of his suit before surveying the luxurious accommodations: the plush patterned carpet, the cushy leather captain’s chairs, the inlaid satinwood and ebony table now spread with a selection of fine wines, exotic fruits, and artisan cheeses. For all of this, Golden Age Media
, Inc. had shelled out $75 million. And, as far as he was concerned, the convenience of private air travel was worth every penny.

Although the BBJ
—a flying boardroom equipped with state-of-the-art satellite communications technology—could easily hold up to fifty passengers, he was on his own today. The only others on board were his four-person crew: two pilots, a chef, and a steward.

Today, he
was traveling from New York to his newsrooms in London and Edinburgh. The trip was one he made several times a month. He might be a geriatric jet setter, but he still ran a tight ship, still kept his hands firmly on the helm. He also loved spending time in his newsrooms, loved being in the thick of the action, and loved being where the news was generated.

As the only son of an aristocrat (he had a younger sister), he’d been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but that didn’t mean he had a happy childhood. Packed off to
an exclusive boarding school at an early age, he saw his parents only for a week or two at Christmas. Those times when he was home for the holidays, his mother lavished him with attention, but his father remained cold and distant.

Solitary and small for his age, he was often the target of bullies in his early years at school. Their favorite trick, a juvenile form of water boarding, was to dunk his head in a dirty toilet and hold it there until he was sure he was going to drown.
They called it a
Yellow Submarine
and would recite a fragment of the spoken verse of the Beatle’s tune while holding him under, sniggering all the while.

Full speed ahead, Mr.
Barkley, full speed ahead!

Afterward, they would hoist him out, panicked and gasping, pin his back to the wall of the stall, and demand his pocket money, which he refused to give them. Consequently, he ended up in the infirmary at least once a week with a bloody nose or black eye. Week after week, the head master would summon him to the office and insist on knowing who had bloodied him, but he refused to tattle. By the time he’d finished his A-levels, the bullies were paying him hush money to keep from being expelled.

He was thirty-five when his father died, leaving him control of the conglomerate in which the family then held a fifty-one percent interest. His grandfather, for whom he was named, started the business with a single newspaper back in the 1920s.

He’d been tagged from Day One to take charge of the empire, and it thrived under his direction. At the time of his father’s death, the newspaper industry was largely failing, but he had strong opinions about why that was
—opinions he was fond of expressing before regulatory bodies like the FCC and the Federal Trade Commission, as well as in his print and on-air editorials. While others blamed the triumph of the digital media for the decline of newspapers, he attributed the collapse to two other causes: the failure of editors and publishers to cater to reader interests and heavy-handed government oversight.

“Newspapers are supposed to hold their governments accountable,” he liked to say, “not the other way around.
”

Failing newspapers proved not a hindrance but a boon. For a relative pittance, he bought up declining dailies in major cities from London to Tel Aviv. Soon enough, he was putting down stakes in the U.S., and, when the FCC relaxed its media ownership rules
—a decision for which he’d aggressively lobbied—he snapped up radio and television stations in the top ten markets: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Washington, D.C., Houston, Dallas-Ft. Worth, Miami-Ft. Lauderdale, San Diego, and Boston.

Of course, he had to become a U.S. citizen first. But that
was a small price to pay considering he now was one of the richest men in the world. Not that the acquisition of wealth was his primary motivation. He saw money for what it was: a means to an end. It was the same way he felt about owning newspapers and television networks. Why bother if he couldn’t use them to advance his own views?

Stepping into the posh cabin, he paused to tap on the cockpit door. “Hey, fellas,” he called through the heavy hatch. “Can you wait to take off until I’ve made a couple of phone calls?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Osbourne.” It was the pilot’s voice. “Whatever you need. Just let us know when you’re ready to go.”

Osbourne
checked his watch—a solid-gold Rolex—and went to find a seat near one of the on-board satellite telephones. When he was comfortable, he detached the phone from the wall and punched in the number for the private line in the oval office.

After just two rings, a
woman’s cheerful, businesslike voice answered. “Office of the President.”

“Good morning, Miss Tyler. This is
Milo. Is the president available?”

Amanda Tyler, he’d observed in the past few weeks, was
almost
as efficient as his own executive assistant was.

“Do you mind holding for just a minute while I check?”

“I don’t mind,” he replied, “as long as it’s no more than a minute.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said
cheerily before putting him on hold.

Less than a minute later, a man’s voice came on the line.
“It’s good to hear from you, Milo. How are you getting on?”

He had no patience for small talk, but in some situations, it did help grease the gears.
“Fine, fine. And how are you and the family settling in at the White House?”

“As well as can be expected.”
The president sounded uncharacteristically fretful. “To tell you the truth, though, it’s a bit like riding a giant roller coaster that never stops to let you off.”

“I’ve heard it said that the first hundred days are the hardest,”
Osbourne offered, feigning sympathy. “Perhaps things will ease up a bit after you’re more acclimated to the routine.” There was a brief lull before he added, “I’m going to need you to help me clear some of the regulatory hurdles surrounding the merger.”

“Ah,” Freeman said, “about that. I’ve been getting some heat from the other side of the aisle. And those relentless editorials in
The Voice
haven’t helped matters.”

Osbourne
could feel his blood going cold.

“Don’t start playing the politician now, Richard. Need I remind you who put you where you are?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Never forget how your public support was constructed
—or how easily it can be torn down in the same manner.”

He heard the president suck in a breath. “Is that some kind of a threat?”

Osbourne let out a tight little laugh. “Really, Richard. You know perfectly well that I’m a newsman. I don’t make threats, I simply report the facts.”

“Okay, okay,” Freeman said, sounding nervous, “I get it. And I promise, I’ll do everything I can to grease the wheels.”

“Wonderful,” Osbourne said. “Because
everything
is exactly what I expect.”

After hanging up, he quickly placed another call. When the party answered, he simply said, “Full speed ahead, Mr.
Barclay. Full speed ahead.”

* * * *

Buchanan felt a rush of relief when at last he saw Thea stepping through the doorway leading to the vault. As she headed toward him, looking like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary, he checked her hands to see if she held anything besides her briefcase and purse. She didn’t, telling him she’d either put away whatever she’d found or found nothing of consequence.

“Well
…?” he prodded impatiently as she approached.

“Not here
,” she whispered, looking around.

He looked around,
too, half-expecting to see someone in a black trench coat lurking nearby. There was nobody beyond a few customers waiting in line and filling out forms.

“Why the secrecy?”

“We can’t be too careful,” she said, keeping her voice low.

That was true enough, but he still didn’t like her sudden cloak-and-dagger demeanor. He was dying to know what
, if anything, she’d found.

“Can you at least tell me if you found
something
?”

“Yes.”

He glowered at her. “Yes, you can tell me? Or yes, you found something?”

Rolling her eyes, she hissed, “
Yes-s-s-s
, I found something.”

When she started toward the exit, he followed her, his patience wearing thin.
She pushed through the outer glass door, skirting around an elderly woman with a cane who was preparing to come in. He held the door for the old woman while keeping his focus on Thea, who, to his annoyance, was still walking. What the devil was she playing at?

“Quit fucking around,” he snarled,
hobbling up to her.

Rounding on him, s
he wore a bemused smirk, as if she was enjoying her momentary power over him.

“What
did you find?” he demanded.

“A voice recorder,” she said, still smiling coyly.

He wanted to shake her. “And…?”

“There was
a disk inside.” 

When she didn’t go on, his temper flared. “Did you listen to it?”

They were standing on the corner across from the bank, out in front of a bar and grille called Rotten Ralph’s. The doors were open and there were people inside, chattering and laughing.

“Only for a moment or two,” she
told him.

“
And…?” He was nearing the end of his rope.

“My grandfather, talking to
an Englishman. His voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.”

Milo
Osbourne sprang instantly to mind.

“It wasn’t
Osbourne,” she said as if reading his thoughts.

“What were they talking about?”

“I couldn’t really tell,” she said. “It sounded complicated. I was hoping we could go back to the hotel and listen to it together.”

Just as they started walking, a black
van cruised to the curb beside them. Buchanan glanced at it anxiously. Oddly, there was an airbrushed mural of what looked to be some kind of Greek god on the side. Zeus, he guessed, given that he was bearded and wielding a thunderbolt. The rear door slid open, revealing two men in the back. One, in a tan suit, was holding a gun on the other, who was bound and gagged. The bound man’s blue eyes bulged with terror. The eyes belonged to Riley Witherspoon.

“Get in,” the
gunman growled, “or your friend here gets it.”

Buchanan
reached for his gun, gaze darting up and down the street in search of an escape. There were several cars, all going the same way. Chestnut, thankfully, was a one way. Pedestrians peppered the sidewalk. Witnesses. Too many to start shooting. He grabbed Thea’s arm as he broke into an uneven run, pulling her along. Behind him, the tires screeched. He stumped toward Third, another one way, still towing Thea. To catch up with them, the car would have to circle the block.  

He cast around for options.
Just ahead, across the street, he spied a brick building—a Best Western. There were some stairs, leading down. Tightening his grip on Thea, he cut across, not bothering to wait for a break in traffic. Horns blared and tires squealed. He prayed no one would hit them, though, if someone did, he considered briefly, they might be better off. Reaching the other side, he sprinted toward the stairs. At the bottom, he found a pair of black metal doors. He seized the handles. Shite, they were locked.

He drew his
Glock. “Cover your ears,” he warned as he stepped back and took aim.

Bam.
Bam
.

The sound was deafening, but he hit his mark. The doors
swung open. He grabbed her wrist and charged through into, as he’d suspected, an underground parking garage. He pulled her with him as he ducked behind a pillar, taking a minute to scan the space. It was dimly lit with flickering florescence. There were only a handful of cars, mostly mid-sized sedans. He started shopping at once for one he could easily steal.

“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.”