Liz gave a quick smile to Ann, and blinked slowly at Lowell Coffey II. The young attorney stood when she entered; as always, he was fondling something rich- one of his diamond cuff links.
Masturbating the money, Liz thought. Unlike Ann, Coffey Percy Richkid had bought into his attorney-parents’ Beverly Hills life-style and Alpha Gamma Crappa grandiloquence. He was always touching something that cost his family more than his yearly salary-Armani tie, gold Flagge fountain pen, Rolex wristwatch. She wasn’t sure whether it was giving him pleasure, calling attention to how big his wallet was, or some of both, but it was transparent and annoying. So was the perfect, razor-cut dirty-blond hair, the manicured and polished fingernails, and the perfect, gray, three-piece Yves St. Laurent suit. She once begged Hood to put a spy eye in his office so they could settle once and for all not if he hit the lint remover every time he shut the door, but for how long.
“A cheerful good morning to you,” Coffey said.
“Hi, Two. Morning, Ann.”
Ann smiled and waved her fingers. She was sitting behind her big antique desk instead of on the front edge, as usual-a body-language barrier against Coffey, Liz imagined. The Yale grad was too smart or too chicken to indulge in overt sexual harassment, but his come-hither approach to Ann made him less popular than wage freezes among PR and psych personnel.
“Thanks for coming, Liz,” Ann said. “Sorry to have to bring you in on this, but Lowell insisted.” She swung her computer monitor around. “Paul wants a press release out there by eight, and I need you to sign off on an assessment of the North Korean leaders.”
Liz leaned stiff-armed on the desk. “Isn’t this Bob Herbert’s area?”
“Technically, yes,” Coffey answered, his voice like rolling skeins of velvet. “But some of the vocabulary Ann has chosen flirts with libel. If I can’t make sure it’s defensible, I want to ascertain whether the subject will seek relief.”
“Like the President of North Korea is going to sue?”
“Ariel Sharon did.”
“That was Time, not the U.S. government.”
“Ah, but suing the government would be a marvelous way for beleaguered North Korea to fan the flames of sympathy.” Coffey sat back down, released his cuff link, and fiddled with the knot of his black tie. “Would you want to undergo discovery, ladies, be forced to reveal sources, operating procedures, and the like? I wouldn’t.”
“You’re right, Two, though it wouldn’t be a lawsuit; you can’t sue a sovereign government. Still, there is a risk.”
He put on a just-do-it expression and held a hand toward the screen. Though she hated to comply, Liz studied the monitor.
“Thanks,” Ann said, patting the back of her hand.
Liz chewed her gum hard as she read. The highlighted passage was short and concise:
We do not believe that the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea wants war, and we condemn rumors that its President personally ordered the terrorist attack. There is no evidence to suggest that he has been under pressure from hard-line officers opposed to reunification and compromise.
Liz turned to Coffey. “So?”
“I searched. Those rumors have not been published or broadcast elsewhere.”
“That’s because the explosion only happened three hours ago.”
“Exactly. This would make us the first to consign said rumors to print-partly because Bob Herbert has been the only one voicing them.”
Liz scratched her forehead. “But we’re condemning the rumors.”
“That doesn’t matter. By introducing the issue, even in a censorious manner, we’re at risk, legally. We must be able to show an absence of malice.”
Ann folded her hands. “I need the paragraph, Liz, or something very much like it. What we’re trying to do is let the North Koreans know that if the President and his military advisers are behind this, we’re onto them. And if they aren’t, then our press release can simply be taken at face value: we’re outraged by the rumors.”
“And you want me to tell you how he’s going to respond when he reads this.”
Ann nodded.
Liz’s chewing slowed. She hated to give Coffey an inch, but she couldn’t let that influence her. She reread the passage.
“The President is not so naive that he wouldn’t expect us to think these things. But he’s also proud enough to take offense at the way you’ve singled him out.”
Ann seemed disappointed. Coffey puffed slightly.
“Suggestions?” Ann asked.
“Two. In the line, ‘… and we condemn rumors that its President personally ordered,’ I would change President to government. That depersonalizes it.”
Ann regarded her for a long moment. “Okay. I can > live with that. Next?”
“This one’s a little dicier. Where you wrote, “There is no evidence to suggest that he has been under pressure from hard-line officers opposed to reunification and compromise,’ I would say something like, ‘We believe that the President continues to resist pressure from hard-line officers opposed to reunification and compromise.’ That still tells the DPRK that we’re aware of the hard-liners while making the President look good.”
“But what if he’s not good?” Ann asked. “Don’t we look green if it turns out he’s behind the whole thing?”
“I don’t think so,” Liz said. “It makes him look like an even bigger rat because we trusted him.”
Ann looked from Liz to Coffey.
“I approve.” Coffey said. “We send the same message with no downside.”
Ann thought a moment longer, then typed in the changes. She saved the document, then handed the mouse to Liz. “You’re good. Want to swap jobs for a while?”
“No thanks,” Liz said. “I prefer my psychos to yours.” She shifted her eyes clandestinely to and from Coffey.
Ann nodded as Liz used the mouse to access her password and switch it to the margin of the document. Her code would become part of the permanent file, right beside the changes, though it wouldn’t appear on the printed press release.
As Liz was about to save the annotated file, the blue screen went black and the fan behind the computer fell silent.
Ann ducked her head under the desk to see if she’d somehow kicked the plug from the surge protector: the cord was right where it should be, and the green light on the surge protector was on.
There were muffled shouts from outside the office; Coffey strode to the door and opened it.
“It seems,” he said, “that we’re not alone.”
“What do you mean?” Ann asked.
Coffey faced her, his expression grave. “It appears that all of the computers in Op-Center have gone down.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 9:15 P.M., Seoul
After the taxi deposited him at the front gate of the U.S. base, Gregory Donald presented his Op-Center photo-badge to the guard. A call to the office of General Norbom and he was admitted.
Howard Norbom had been a Major in Korea while > Donald was Ambassador. They met at a party celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the end of the war and had hit it off right away. Their liberal-leaning politics were the same, they were both looking for a wholesome little thing to marry, and both were devotees of classical piano, Frederic Chopin in particular, as Donald discovered when the honky-tonk pianist took five and the Major sat down and did a commendable job on the Revolutionary Etude.
Major Norbom found his wholesome little thing two weeks later when he met Diane Albright of UPI. They were married three months after that and recently celebrated their twenty-fourth wedding anniversary. The General and Diane had two great kids: Mary Ann, a Pulitzer Prize nominated biographer, and Lon, who worked for Greenpeace.
After an orderly showed him into the General’s office, the men embraced and Donald’s tears began again.
“I’m so sorry,” the General said, embracing his friend, “so very sorry. Diane’s on assignment in Soweto or she would have been here. She’s going to meet us here.”
“Thanks,” Donald choked, “but I’ve decided to send Soonji to the U.S.”
“Really? Her father agreed-”
“I haven’t spoken to him yet.” Donald laughed mirthlessly. “You know how he felt about the marriage. But I know how Soonji felt about the United States, and that’s where I want her to be. I think it’s where she’d have wanted to be.”
Norbom nodded, then walked around his desk. “The Embassy will have to take care of the paperwork, but I’ll see that that gets right through. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, but tell me-is she here already?”
Norbom pursed his lips and nodded.
“I want to see her.”
“Not-now,” Norbom said, and looked at his watch. “I’m having our dinner brought over. We can talk for a while.”
Donald looked into his friend’s steel-gray eyes. Set in the craggy face of the fifty-two-year-old Base Commander, those eyes inspired trust, and Donald had always been quick to give it to him. If Norbom didn’t want him to see his wife’s body yet, Donald would defer. Only he had to see her soon, let her soul guide him, tell him that what he was planning was the right thing to do.