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The TV commentator took Holtzman’s mini-tape recorder from his hand and punched the record button.
“This is John Plumber, it’s Saturday, seven-fifty in the morning, and we’re standing across the street from the Giant Steps Day Care Center. Robert Holtzman and I are about to leave this location to go somewhere. I have given my word that what we are about to investigate will remain absolutely confidential between us. This tape recording is a permanent record of that promise on my part. John Plumber,” he concluded, “NBC News.” He clicked it off, then clicked it back on again. “However, if Bob has misrepresented himself to me, all bets are off.”
“That’s fair,” Holtzman agreed, removing the tape cassette from the recorder and pocketing it. The promise had no legal standing at all. Even if it had been a contractual agreement, the First Amendment would probably negate it, but it was a man’s word, and both of the reporters knew that something had to hold up, even in the modern age. On the way to Bob’s car, Plumber grabbed his field producer.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so.”
THE PREDATOR WAS circling at just under ten thousand feet. For purposes of convenience, the three UIR army corps were identified as I, II, and III by the intelligence officers at STORM TRACK and PALM BOWL. The UAV was circling I Corps now, a reconstituted Iraqi Republican Guard armored division and a similar division from the former Iranian army, “The Immortals,” it was called, harkening back to the personal guard of Xerxes. The deployment was conventional. The regimental formations were in the classic two-up/one-back disposition, a triangle of sorts, with the third forming the divisional reserve. The two divisions were abreast. Their frontage was surprisingly narrow, however, with each division covering a mere thirty kilometers of linear space, and only a five-kilometer gap between the two.
They were training hard. Every few kilometers were targets, plywood cutouts of tanks. When they came into
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view, they were shot at. The Predator couldn’t tell how good the gunnery was, though most of the targets were knocked over by the time the first echelon of fighting vehicles passed. The vehicles were mainly of Russian/Soviet origin. The heavy ones were T-72 and T-80 main battle tanks made at the huge Chelyabinsk works. The infantry vehicles were BMPs. The tactics were Soviet, too. That was evident from the way they moved. Sub-units were kept under tight control. The huge formations moved with geometric precision, like harvesting machines in a Kansas wheatfield, sweeping across the terrain in regular lines.
“Geez, I’ve seen the movie,” the chief master sergeant observed at the Kuwaiti ELINT station.
“Yes?” Major Sabah asked.
“The Russians–well, the Soviets, used to make movies of this, sir.”
“How would you compare the two?” And that, the NCO intelligence-specialist thought, was a pretty good question.
“Not much different, Major.” He pointed to the lower half of the screen. “See here? The company commander has everything on line, proper distance and interval. Before, the Predator was over the division reconnaissance screen, and that was right out of the book, too. Have you read up on Soviet tactics, Major Sabah?”
“Only as the Iraqis implemented them,” the Kuwaiti officer admitted.
“Well, it’s pretty close. You hit hard and fast, just go right through your enemy, don’t give him a chance to react. You keep your own people under control. It’s all mathematics to them.”
“And the level of their training?”
“Not bad, sir.”
“ELLIOT HAD SURVEILLANCE on Ryan, right over there,” Holtzman pointed as he brought the car intp the 7-Eleven.
“She was having him followed?”
“Liz hated his guts. I never–well, okay, I did figure it
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out. It was personal. She really had it in for Ryan, something that happened before Bob Fowler got elected. Enough that she leaked a story that was supposed to hurt his family. Nice, eh?”
Plumber wasn’t all that impressed. “That’s Washington.”
“True, but what about using official government assets for a personal vendetta? That may be real Washington, too, but it’s against the law.” He switched off the car and motioned for Plumber to get out.
Inside they found a diminutive owner, female, and a bunch of Amerasian kids stocking the shelves on this Saturday morning.
“Hello,” Carol Zimmer said. She recognized Holtzman from previous visits to buy bread and milk–and to eyeball the establishment. She had no idea he was a reporter. But she did recognize John Plumber. She pointed. “You on TV!”
“Yes, I am,” the commentator admitted with a smile.
The eldest son–his name tag said Laurence–came up with a less friendly look on his face. “Can I help you with something, sir?” His voice was unaccented, his eyes bright and suspicious.
“I’d like to talk to you, if I might,” Plumber asked politely.
“About what, sir?”
“You know the President, don’t you?”
“Coffee machine’s that way, sir. You can see where the doughnuts are.” The young man turned his back. His height must have come from his father, Plumber saw, and he had education.
“Wait a minute!” Plumber said.
Laurence turned back. “Why? We have a business to run here. Excuse me.”
“Larry, be nice to man.”
“Mom, I told you what he did, remember?” When Laurence looked back at the reporters, his eyes told the tale. They wounded Plumber in a way he hadn’t known in years.
“Excuse me. Please,” the commentator said. “I just want to talk to you. There aren’t any cameras with me.”
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“Are you in medical school now, Laurence?” Holtzman asked.
“How did you know that? Who the hell are you?”
“Laurence!” his mother objected.
“Wait a minute, please.” Plumber held his hands up. “I just want to talk. No cameras, no recorders. Everything is off the record.”
“Oh, sure. You give us your word on that?”
“Laurence!”
“Mom, let me handle this!” the student snapped, then instantly apologized. “Sorry, Mom, but you don’t know what this is about.”
“I’m just trying to figure out–”
“I saw what you did, Mr. Plumber. Didn’t anybody tell you? When you spit on the President, you spit on my father, too! Now, why don’t you buy what you need and take a hike.” The back turned again.
“I didn’t know,” John protested. “If I’ve done something wrong, then why don’t you tell me about it? I promise, you have my word, I will not do anything to hurt you or your family. But if I’ve done something wrong, please tell me.”
“Why you hurt Mr. Ryan?” Carol Zimmer asked. “He good man. He look after us. He–”
“Mom, please. These people don’t care about that!” Laurence had to come back and handle this. His mom was just too naive.
“Laurence, my name is Bob Holtzman. I’m with the Washington Post. I’ve known about your family for several years now. I never ran the story because I didn’t want to invade your privacy. I know what President Ryan is doing for you. I want John to hear it from you. It will not become public information. If I wanted that to happen, I would have done it myself.”
“Why should I trust you?” Laurence Zimmer demanded. “You’re reporters.” That remark broke through Plumber’s demeanor hard and sharp enough to cause physical pain. Had his profession sunk so low as that?
“You’re studying to be a doctor?” Plumber asked, starting at square one.
“Second year at Georgetown. I have a brother who’s
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a senior at MIT, and a sister who just started at UVA.”
“It’s expensive. Too expensive for what you make off this business. I know. I had to educate my kids.”
“We all work here. I work weekends.”
“You’re studying to be a physician. That’s an honorable profession,” Plumber said. “And when you make mistakes, you try to learn from them. So do I, Laurence.”
“You sure talk the talk, Mr. Plumber, but lots of people do that.”
“The President helps, doesn’t he?”
“If I tell you something off the record, does that mean you can’t report it at all?”
“No, actually ‘off the record’ doesn’t quite mean that. But if I tell you, right here and right now, that I will never use it in any way–and there are other people around to back you up–and then I break my word, you can wreck my career. People in my business are allowed to get away with a lot, maybe even too much,” Plumber conceded, “but we can’t lie.” And that was the point, wasn’t it?
Laurence looked over to his mother. Her poor English did not denote a poor mind. She nodded to him.
“He was with my dad when he got killed,” the youth reported. “He promised Pop that he would look after us. He does, and yeah, he pays for school and stuff, him and his friends at CIA.”
“They had some trouble here with some rowdies,” Holtzman added. “A guy I know at Langley came over here and–“