Wag the Dog (52 page)

“What?”

“It's one thing to be killed for a movie. But for a miniseries? . . . It's not funny.”

“No.”

“Now that I said it, it's not. It's so sad.”

Suddenly, it's real simple. People don't get killed for movies. Or miniseries. So it's not a movie. I'm playing this wrong. Way wrong.

“Maggie, listen to me. This is out of hand. We have to get some things straight. I want you to call David Hartman.”

“Why? What?”

“Trust me. Do it. We're going to end this. Now. Call him and get in to see him as soon as we can.” Microphones are listening. We're being watched. In the morning Ray Matusow will pick up the tape of what we did today. Then it will go to transcription services. Mel Taylor will have it in the afternoon. Hartman sometime thereafter, if it's interesting. Or titillating.

Maggie dials. I listen on the extension. “Fi, it's Maggie. I need to see David.”

“Oh, dear, you do know the sort of shed-ule he keeps.”

“It's urgent Fi, figure out some way I can see him today.”

“I simply cahn't do it.”

“What about tomorrow.”

“He's leaving the country for a week. It's not going to be possible.”

“Who's he in with?” Maggie asks, figuring there are some people she simply outranks on the Hollywood scale. “Come on, Fi, who's he seeing today? Help me, Fi, and I will tell you what Fergie really did at that party in New York last month.”

“I assure you, Maggie, that while you may have been at the party, I have already heard reports that include the color of her underdrawers, not to be vulgar. However, since you are a dear and do give me a bit of good gossip from time to time, I will tell you. Right now he is in with Sakuro, and you know how he is about his kendo. After that he has a meeting with C. H. Bunker.”

“Who,” Maggie asks, “is OH. Bunker?”

“I don't know, but he is terribly important.”

I gesture Maggie to cut off the conversation.

“Thanks, Fi,” she says.

“Nothing of it. I really am sorry I couldn't do more for you. He'll be back in a week.”

T
AYLOR BEGAN TO
explain, step-by-step, what had happened.

“I was hoping I wouldn't have to hear this,” Hartman said. “I was expecting you to say that the man in charge had already been dismissed and you had seen fit to replace him.”

“I want to assure you,” Sheehan said, “that I have reviewed the event already. So I can reassure you there were no witnesses to the actual event. There is nothing to tie the person involved”—it was considered a courtesy not to burden the client with the name of the person who had actually brought about the consummation—”to the incident. There will be no repercussion. Nothing that will come back up the line, as it were. We can guarantee that.”

“Excuse me,” Hartman said. “You force me to explain this like ABCs for children. Do you expect Joe Broz and, by extension, Maggie Lazlo to ignore a body on their doorstep? You people underestimate Hollywood totally. You think a woman like Maggie is lucky. A pretty face that photographs well. Or maybe a bimbo, fucked her way to the top. Trust me on this, the ones that make it to the top are smart, shrewd, and totally focused. Even when they're young, pretty, and female.

“That brings me to Mr. Broz. I read his file. The real one. Thank you very much. This is one real sonuvabitch, isn't he, gentlemen? So you did not solve a problem. You created at least double the problem.”

“Given the mandate,” Taylor said, “the resources, the situation—”

Hartman didn't let him finish. “I'm in a business,” he said, “where resources, situations, none of that matters. A movie either performs or it doesn't. After a flop, everyone sits around, they talk, they analyze it, they write books about how it flopped. Does it matter? No. Does it make them a success the next time out of the box? If there is one? No. Did you ever see
Home Alone? Wayne's World
! Have you seen the last three Eddie Murphy movies? It is
impossible
that these were successful. Yet they were. Do you get it? Give me a guy who steps in shit and smells like roses. I don't want a guy who tends the roses perfectly, but comes in stinking like shit.”

Everyone looked toward Taylor. Everyone always looks at the condemned man.

“Point well taken,” C. H. said. “It seems to me, if I am to select the right person, and if we are to prevent problems from reoccurring, then there are some matters that must be discussed. Must be.” Looking at Taylor and speaking gently, Bunker said, “Mel”—he gestured toward the door—“this won't concern you.”

Taylor got up. End of career. He walked to the door.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

“Mel . . .” Bunker said, meaning
Go quietly. Your time has come.

“I want to, I want to say something here.”

“Taylor,” Sheehan snapped, meaning
Shut up and get your ass out of here.

Mel was a good soldier. So this was hard for him to do. But he went for it. “Sir, I have a statement to make. Let's start with this. John Lincoln Beagle is not making a movie. We do not let slip the dogs of war over a motion picture. Universal Security frequently acts for the benefit of the United States of America. I hope that what happened earlier today happened in order to protect the vital interests of our country. If it was for anything less, then whoever gave me my orders is in error.

“Then there's this. An incorrect assumption. If you think that this event is creating a problem with Broz and Lazlo, that
is, pardon me, an incorrect assumption. It is backwards, sir, ass backwards. We have surveillance on over twenty people. We have been watching them for months. Because we have streamlined things and we use a lot of electronics and because people do develop patterns, we have been able to minimize personnel, but that's still about thirty people, full-time, on this one operation. With all of that, there have been only four blips on the radar. Four. One with Maggie Lazlo before she hooked up with Broz. The thing with her maid. Two that connect directly to Broz—Kitty Przyszewski and Teddy Brody. One unknown—the mugging of Ray Matusow.

“Since I don't know the details of this operation, which is not a movie, I can't tell who the opposition is. I don't know if it's the Soviets, or the Japs, or the Islamic Jihad. But I can tell you that Broz is not some innocent bystander who has his curiosity aroused by what we did. To the contrary, he is a player. You can fire me today, you can bring in some other guy, but even if you bring Brody back to life, Joe Broz will still be a player. Excuse my vernacular, sir, he's fucking with us.

“Rather than firing me, you should be considering when and how to shut him down. It's not a question of whether you have to. It's a question of whether you do it in time.”

Hartman was intrigued. Partly because there was a possibility that Taylor was right. Partly because, having had one person killed—through many intermediaries and not by bringing his will directly to bear—having had one person killed, he was intrigued by the idea of doing it again. Maggie Lazlo and Joe Broz were so much more luminescent and powerful people too.

Bunker was content to let Taylor run with it. “What would you suggest, Mel?”

Taylor sighed with relief. He'd saved himself. Now it was his turn to deal the hand. Should he sit or should he stand? Be commanding or humble? Play the advisor or field commander?

“You know what's at stake and you know what's at risk,” he said to Hartman. “You're the only one in this room who really knows. There are all kinds of options. One is to step up surveillance and interdiction. Actually, we've done pretty well
with that. Broz knows nothing. We're on him like ticks on a hound. And you might want to say, just keep it up.

“But I have to admit, surveillance is an art. Not a science. There are always cracks in the door. The KGB makes mistakes, the CIA makes mistakes. So you might want to get more active. I don't know what resources these two have beyond their own, but if you cut off the money, you do a lot of damage. Then there's a variety of tricks that will absorb their time and attention.

“Finally, if the downside risk of leak is large enough, it justifies any defensive measure . . .”

Sakuro Juzo, outside the door of David Hartman's office, glared at Maggie Lazlo and Joe Broz.

Fiona said to Maggie, “I absolutely cahn't.”

“Just please tell him I'm here, and it's urgent.”

“Maggie—”

“Would you please tell C. H. Bunker,” Joe said, “that Joseph Broz is here.”

That was different. While she couldn't interrupt her boss, she could get a message to a visitor. “Alright,” Fiona said. She picked up the phone and pushed the intercom button. “It's for Mr. Bunker. Joe Broz is here.”

“Show him in,” C. H. said.

Hartman tried to characterize the look on the old man's face. He looked—what was it—entertained? “Alright. Fiona, let him in.”

Joe Broz came in with Maggie beside him. She looked distraught. Like she'd been crying. “C. H., thanks,” Joe said.

“Well, well, Joe. Good to see you.” Bunker rose from his chair, for Maggie. He half-bowed in a courtly manner. It forced the other men to stand as well, and because it hadn't occurred to them until he was already standing, it made them seem gauche and Bunker even more courteous by contrast. “And the delicious Ms. Lazlo. I have but few years left, but I would give all of my days for just one day in Joe's place.” He said it in a way that brought no offense. “A chair for Ms. Lazlo.”

Maggie clung closer to Joe. “I'll stand,” she said.

“Pardon an old man, then,” Bunker said, and sank back into his seat. Sheehan and Hartman sat. Taylor still stood.

“C. H., you know me, you know I've kept the secrets,” Joe said.

“Yes, you have.”

Joe nodded as if something was settled. He turned to the agent. “OK, Mr. Hartman, let's not fuck around. It's pretty goddamn obvious John Lincoln Beagle is doing something secret. I know it. Maggie knows it. You know that we know it. You knew a long time ago when Bennie told her to shut up and she didn't and then her maid disappeared and all of that.

“The thing is, we don't care. We're in love. She's got a great career. I might have one too. Why the fuck should we care about John Lincoln Beagle? I don't have enough time to kiss Maggie as much as I want to. Let alone read the stack of scripts in my office.

“Some kid is coming to see me. For a job. I want to see him because he's got all this education—Yale, UCLA—and me, I left school at fourteen. Ninth grade. It was the Marines put me straight. Then I look out the window . . .” Joe pointed at Taylor. “This sonuvabitch is staring at me. Then Bo Perkins shows up . . .” He turned to Bunker. “C. H., it's none of my business, but what the hell are you using Bo Perkins for? Who is this Brody kid? Some Nicaraguan guerrilla? Shining Path? Fanatic Moslem assassin?

“Bo kills the kid, right in my lobby.

“Guys, I've been in the game. One plus one equals big trouble. You gotta be thinking that I'm after John Lincoln Beagle's secret. I'm here to say, I'm not. Whatever you want me to walk away from, I'm already gone. Anything you think of tomorrow, you want me to walk away from, consider me gone.”

“Bullshit,” Taylor said.

“What about it, C. H.?”

“Umm,” Bunker said.

“One more thing,” Joe said. “A week ago, I was moving some of my gear, from my house to Maggie's—excuse me, Maggie, I didn't tell you this because I didn't want to upset you and I hadn't figured out what the hell was going on yet—but you have her house wired.”

“They what?” Maggie cried. Full of shock and shame and anger. Strange men listening to her sounds of love. To her pissing and shitting and chastising herself when she looked in the mirror and saw age or excess. To the sounds that she made in her sleep, that she herself didn't even know. “Our house is what? Who did this? Who did this?”