The Tin Man (24 page)

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. W
as 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 w
as 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 t
ortured? 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.

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 way. 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?

Whatever Connolly intended to tell him, he was
almost certain was on that recording. But, even so, it wouldn’t be enough. A tape could too easily be made to disappear by any friend of Babylon within the department. And there were some, weren’t there? If not the attorney general himself. That was why he needed the journalists. The power of the press—such as it was anymore. A story, especially one in
The New York News
, would still bring public and political pressure to bear, forcing his higher ups to act.

Or so he hoped.

And maybe, just maybe, it would win for Thea Hamilton that Pulitzer Prize she’d long deserved. Unfortunately, though, for now at least, he was trapped in a Catch 22: he couldn’t help them until they broke the story and, from the sound of Buchanan’s message, without his help, there would be no story.

With an empty feeling, he returned to his chair and positioned his fingers on the keyboard. He had to
think hard about what he would post, considering that whoever was after Buchanan was almost certainly monitoring his news site. Did Zahhak and Osbourne know about Aslan and the recording? If so, the old man was in mortal danger (hadn’t he tried to warn him?). And so were Buchanan and Thea, now that they had it. The thought of what might befall the journalists tied his stomach in knots. Taking a breath, he settled at last on what to write:
Break the story and untie my hands.
He only hoped they would live long enough to heed his advice.

* * * *

Buchanan, having read Lapdog’s missive, was standing at the counter, computer put away, briefcase in hand, scoring a couple of hot beverages while asking the barista if there was a motel in the vicinity that was both cheap and clean.

“There’s nothing like that
around here,” the girl told him with a wavering smile. “But there’s something out toward the airport—a motor lodge with a cocktail lounge.”

That
was all he needed to hear. As knackered as he was, he could do with a couple of stiff belts to take the edge off. He still felt incredibly tense—about what was on that tape, about Lapdog’s inability to help, and about what might lay ahead for him and Thea.

Good and bad.

Returning to the car, he handed
Thea her drink and pulled out onto a dark stretch of road. He planned to drive out to the airport, abandon the car in long-term parking, and take a taxi back to the motel.

Turning to her, he said,
“We need to file the story. Without it, he says he can’t help.”

She sat there a minute, as if gathering wool, before she asked,
“Who’s going to break it? You or me?
The Voice
would be quicker, of course, but
The News
has more clout.”

“
If we go with
The News
, could we share a byline?”

“It would be unorthodox,
given that you’re not on the staff,” she told him. “But I’m willing to ask.”

“
Good. Then
The News
it is. Let’s go over what we’ve got. And what we still need.”

“We’ve got the tape
,” she said. “But in fairness, we should call Zahhak and probably try to find out the names of his investors. And call them, too.”

He gave her a slicing look.
“Won’t that tip them off?”

“Yes, but
—it’s standard procedure. And Glenda won’t be satisfied if I don’t at least try to get a reaction.”

“They’ll only deny it,” he said, playing devil’s advocate. He knew damn well what protocol demanded, but
that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“
Maybe so,” she acknowledged. “But that hardly justifies negligence. How would it look if I wrote that I didn’t bother calling anyone at Babylon because I knew they’d only deny it anyway?”

She had
a point, he conceded, compressing his lips.

“
So, when do we make the call?”

The time difference, he knew, was the same as Scotland, meaning it was four o’clock in the morning right now in Riyadh. 

“Sometime after midnight,” he suggested.

“And what do we do in the meantime?”

“Try playing the interview again,” he said. “Let’s see if there’s more.”

She set her drink in the center cup holder before
switching on the player. There was a lot of hissing before Connolly said, “That’s why, when this shark attacked out of the blue, I offered to step in as Osbourne’s White Knight—to gum up the works.”

“
Someone is mounting a hostile takeover against Golden Age?”

Aslan
sounded as shocked by the news as Buchanan felt.

“Yes
,” Connolly confirmed. “And by all accounts, he plans to break it apart, which will put an end to their scheme—for the time being, at least. And that’s why I plan to pull a Lady MacBeth and side with the Black Knight in the end.”

“Oh my God,”
Thea cried, startling Buchanan so much he almost dropped his coffee.

“What?”

“There was a rumor going around the newsroom,” she began to explain rather breathlessly. “Just before I left. That Titan was going to step in as Golden’s White Knight. Do you think they got wind of Connolly’s plan to change sides? And, knowing Quinn Davidson, he planned to do the same. Do you think that’s why they killed them?”

Buchanan
gave her a hard look. “You knew about the takeover attempt?”

“
Yes, but, I didn’t see how it might be relevant.”

“
What about Davidson’s successor? If he goes forward with the deal, he’ll be playing into their hands.”

“
I need to warn him,” she said, flushing as she pulled out her iPhone.

“You have access to the CEO?”

“No, but Glenda does.”

* * * *

Zeus, having traded the tuxedo coat for a black-velvet smoking jacket, was lounging in his private boudoir at Tartarus, re-reading his copy of
Justine
, an erotic novel about the uselessness of virtue by the Marquis de Sade, another of his heroes. The book, subtitled
Good Conduct Well Chastised
, told the story of a damsel in distress who, though determined to remain pure, repeatedly found herself debauched by everyone she turned to for help.

As he read,
Depeche Mode’s
Master and Servant
pulsed out of the surround-sound speakers—the first track on a special mix of mood music inspired by the Torture Playlist used by the U.S. military. Like theirs, his was designed to induce sleep deprivation and disorientation, and drown out the screaming. As he recalled from time spent at Abu Ghraib, the tracks included
Fuck Your God
by Decide,
Die MF Die
by Dope,
White America
by Eminem, and, of all things, the obnoxious jingle from the Meow Mix commercials as well as the banal theme song from the children’s show
Barney
.

I love you,
You love me,
We're a happy family,
with a great big hug,
and a kiss from me to you,
Won't you say you love me too?