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  "Okay, guys, come on," the host interrupted. "Let's take a deep breath. This is a good time to take a break. When we come back, I want to talk about the real problem, in my opinion, the ethical repercussions of turning nuclear weapons back onto civilian populations. Because Joshua Jordan's RTS defense system will certainly lead to that. And I also want to discuss just who Mr. Jordan really is and why he's in the hot seat before Congress. Until he's more forthcoming, we're all going to remain in the dark. And in today's volatile world, that's never a safe place to be. We'll be right back."

  The White House Press Secretary bolted out of the West Wing at a fast clip. He was heading directly toward the Oval Office.

  Halfway there he was joined by the president's chief of staff, Hank Strand.

  "Do you have a statement drafted yet?" Strand bulleted, a little out of breath as the two strode together like Olympic long-distance walkers.

  The press secretary tapped his head and said, "I've got it all in here."

  "Well you'd better get it down on paper for the president to read. And stat."

  "I already know the basics of the line we're going to use. Secretary of State Danburg's speech was taken out of context. The administration has made no formal decision to trade RTS designs for international economic assistance. Then we quickly shift the focus off of the president and onto Congress. They need to exercise their congressional authority. You know, use the oversight committee's contempt powers to force Joshua Jordan to be forthcoming...blah, blah, blah..."

  An hour later, Caesar Demas, who was back at his palatial, columnstudded compound outside of Rome, received a phone call from the U.S. State Department. The message was cordial, but blunt...and not surprising.

  "Mr. Demas, we appreciate your offer to negotiate as a mediator between the United States and other key countries regarding the sharing of our RTS technology. But regrettably, we will have to decline your offer."

  "I understand," Demas casually responded.

  "As I'm sure you can appreciate, current political realities have rendered such a trade...well, not feasible at this time."

  "Yes. Too bad."

  "Have a good day, Mr. Demas."

  Five minutes later, Petri Feditzch got a call on his cell. He was just about to leave his industrial harbor office in the Netherlands and head into downtown Rotterdam for a late dinner.

  Caesar Demas was on the line. "It's me."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "You know, Petri, I told the State Department to have that idiot Danburg avoid making it obvious in his speech about swapping the RTS for better international trade terms. But no, he wouldn't listen. So the poll numbers went south for the White House, and now they've got cold feet. It looks as if we'll have to get the RTS the hard way. We are returning to Plan A."

  "And the messenger?"

  "Tell him we are back on track."

  "All right. I hope this is the last time we have to change course..."

  "Just deliver the message," Demas barked. "Considering your former KGB status, Petri, I am surprised at you. You are like a little girl. Are you afraid to talk to the messenger?"

  Petri glanced into his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed.

  "Not at all. My sole concern is for success of the mission."

  "Fortunately, we didn't lose much time. Our man should be able to reach the target and retrieve the information without compromising the timeline."

  "I would think so."

  "Oh, and one more thing," Demas added.

  "Yes, sir?'

  "I would appreciate it if our messenger didn't leave a messy trail behind him."

  "That may be a problem."

  "And why is that?" Demas asked.

  "Because creating a human mess is what he does best."

  Demas couldn't argue with that.

  "Fine. Just make sure he gets everything we need related to the RTS."

  By the time Atta Zimler got the call from Petri Feditzch he was already driving a different vehicle and had left the highway. After heading down a deserted dirt road in a wooded area in northern New York State for a few miles, he pulled off and entered a fire lane that cut through the forest. He then drove a half mile into the woods before coming to the edge of a clearing where there was a peaty bog full of black mud. Before getting out, he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror.

  Zimler had already shaved off his mustache, removed the spectacles, and dyed his hair red.

  Then he climbed out of the car.

  That is when his cell rang. He clicked on the cheap, untraceable InstaAllfone that he had picked up at a local gas station and answered the call while popping the trunk of the car.

  It was Petri. "The boss says the mission is a go. Exactly as planned. You can start up again."

  Zimler had to smile at that. He had only one thing to say. "I never stopped."

  He clicked off the call and stuffed the Allfone in his pocket.

  Then he lifted the trunk of the car and reached in. Grabbing a big, heavy burlap sack, Zimler lugged it out of the trunk and tossed it to the ground. The resulting thud would likely be considered sickening to most people, but it didn't bother Zimler in the least.

  He then snatched a box of lime from the trunk.

  The Algerian opened the burlap bag and looked in.

  Inside, staring blankly up at him, was his latest victim, wearing the final grimace of death on his face. He was the owner of the car that Zimler was now driving. The assassin methodically poured the lime into the bag, added a few bricks, then tied it shut and dragged it over toward the edge of the bog.

  He then hoisted the bag containing the body over his head like a weightlifter, took a few tottering steps forward, and tossed it out into the deepest part of the swamp.

  The bag hit the watery bog and floated on top for just an instant. Then it quickly sank into the muddy black ooze, disappearing entirely from sight...hopefully forever.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Abigail had had to ask herself whether some dark secret might be lying just under the surface. She knew her friend Darlene well enough to know that she seemed to be carrying some great weight on her heart that morning as they drove together. While their husbands prepared for the first day of meetings of the clandestine Roundtable group, the two women had driven to Aspen for lunch. The idea had been Darlene's.

  Abigail was several years younger than the round-faced Darlene. The two had known each other for nearly a decade and had initially met through their husbands. Darlene was married to Judge Fortis Rice, a former Idaho State Supreme Court justice. He was a charter member of Joshua's Roundtable.

  As a longtime resident of Colorado, Abigail had traveled through that fashionably rustic little village more than a few times. She privately didn't care for the celebrity-conscious, Beverly-Hills-of-the-Rockies atmosphere of the famous ski resort, which was home to a number of Hollywood stars and even a Saudi prince. But Darlene had never been there and wondered if they could go. Abigail said she would be happy to take her and agreed to do the driving. They would travel in the little yellow Jeep for the daytrip, the one that Darlene thought looked so cute, which the Jordans kept year-round at Hawk's Nest.

  As they sat down together at the crowded outdoor cafe for lunch, Abigail wondered if Darlene may have arranged their day together so she could open up about whatever it was that had her in its grasp. But Darlene wasn't ready just yet. Instead, she was busy cracking jokes about the Aspen society: the trendy Labradoodle mix of designer dogs being walked past their table by the locals, and the wealthy chic women wearing artfully ripped blue-jeans and eight-carat diamonds strolling by and swinging their Prada bags.

  Darlene had Abigail laughing and enjoying herself. But as Abigail studied her friend, she saw it. A sadness just beneath the surface of Darlene's humor.

  They continued to pick their way through their salads while chatting about nothing in particular. Darlene had ordered a huge chef salad while Abigail had fancied the lean "Aspen Forest Special," which consi
sted of a bowl of greens garnished with nuts and fruit.

  Darlene finished a bite, glanced over at her friend, and shook her head. "Oh, you're still so good with calories. Look at me. I've loaded up with all this ham and cheese. And I forget to order the low-cal dressing..."

  "Darley, don't be so hard on yourself. Just chalk this up to a little celebration. Two chick-friends doing lunch. It's really been too long..."

  "Not since New Year's Eve."

  "We've got to get together more often. I mean it, Darley..."

  Suddenly Darlene got very quiet. She looked at her salad and listlessly stirred the lettuce for a moment. She then sighed, put her fork down, and rested her chin on her folded hands.

  "You know Abby, I used to think you were a friend..."

  Darlene paused. Abigail wondered what was coming next.

  "But now I think of you as my dearest friend."

  Abby blushed a little and reached across the table for Darlene's hand. She squeezed it while Darlene continued.

  "We don't see each other but, what, maybe twice a year on average. And lots of phone calls in between, of course..."

  Abigail smiled at that.

  "I feel I can really share anything with you..."

  Now Abigail was waiting.

  But then Darlene suddenly darted off course. "You look so fit, Abby. You must still be jogging?"

  "I try to. Our schedules have become impossible lately. It's hard to stick to the routine with everything that's going on..."

  "I know. Fort and I have been following how the media has been going after poor Josh over this missile crisis. What a mess this country's in."

  Abigail nodded and smiled, but she knew Darlene was just dancing around the issue now, whatever it was.

  "I bet there's been a lot of pressure on the two of you," Darlene continued.

  "There has been. But funny enough, I feel so close to Josh lately, despite the tension and stress."

  "Hmm, stress..." Darlene repeated the word with almost a kind of whimper.

  "But on the other hand, I know of so many other folks who have it much harder than we do," Abigail offered with a gentleness in her voice that unexpectedly caught her friend off guard. Darlene quickly covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes began to fill up. It took nearly a minute before she could collect herself and respond. When she did, her voice was noticeably trembling.

  "I will never forget how you helped me through Jimmy's death. It's one of those things that a mother doesn't ever let go of. So many questions. How could my perfectly healthy twenty-five-year-old die like that from an aneurism? No warning. No symptoms. A call from his friend...they were playing basketball at the Y. 'Jimmy collapsed,' he said. Your whole life changes in an instant. From one phone call."

  "I'm just glad I could be there for you," Abigail reassured. "And I'm still here."

  "I tried to talk with Fort about it. But you know him; he sort of retreats into himself. I don't blame him. It's just the way he is. I know he was devastated. I still wonder whether all of that contributed to his heart problems. And ever since he had to retire from the bench it's been...well...interesting at home, and not in a good way."

  Darlene paused. She was getting closer. Abigail let her friend continue.

  "So I've had to cope as best as I can. Find my own little methods to live with all of this. Funny how when you're younger you don't really fear much. Then you start losing things, losing people you love, and suddenly you're afraid of everything. So you do whatever it takes to put one foot in front of the other, maintain your balance."

  As she stared off into space, her hands were now on the table, and her fingers were gracefully moving in a rhythm, as if she were strumming some tiny, invisible guitar.

  Then, abruptly, she sat straight up and began looking around. "Where is it? Where's my purse?"

  There was a look of panic on Darlene's face.

  Abigail spotted it under her chair and reached down to pluck it up. Darlene thrust her hand over the table to grab the purse. As she did she inadvertently knocked her purse out of Abigail's hand and down onto the table where the contents spilled out.

  Including a dozen prescription pill bottles.

  Abigail picked up one of the bottles. Then another. And another. They all read Diazepam.

  Abigail recognized what it was.

  "These are all valium..."

  Darlene reached out to grab them and stuff them back in her purse. She was trying to look unruffled. But it wasn't working. Her hands were trembling, and she accidentally dropped several of the pill bottles on the floor once again. Abigail quietly helped her pick them up and placed them on the table.

  Then she reached over and squeezed Darlene's hand. "Okay, friend. You're dealing with a lot, aren't you?"

  Darlene was struggling to crack a joke about her moment of embarrassment with the pill bottles. She tried to smile and started to speak, but she couldn't, at least for a moment or two. She glanced around nervously at the other cafe guests while her chin trembled and the tears started rolling down her cheeks.

  Finally she summoned the strength to speak. "Okay, Abby. Now you know. My nasty little secret. This is how I cope."

  "That's a lot of valium, Darley..."

  Darlene nodded. "I have three different doctors. In three different cities. All of them prescribing. I don't think they know about each other. Although two of them know about Fort, and because of who he is, they don't ask a lot of questions. So I triple-dose. I'm using this to exist, Abigail."

  "And?"

  "And I find that I can't live without it. Literally. I can't give it up. God help me, I've tried to stop. But whenever I quit, fear and anxiety start to suffocate me. I can't breathe. Can't sleep. I can't even begin to tell you how terrible it is."

  "Does Fort know?"

  "I don't think so. He knew I was taking some medication right after Jimmy's death to relax but that's about it."

  Abigail thought about the next question she wanted to ask her friend. She knew it might sound a little brusque. But it was necessary. So she decided to move ahead.

  "I am asking this only because I care about you, Darley. But I was wondering, why did you decide to share this with me?"

  Darlene shrugged and slightly shook her head.

  For an instant Abigail feared that she had offended her friend. But then Darlene spoke up.

  "I suppose, I don't know...maybe I thought you were one of the few people who wouldn't judge me but who would be honest with me."

  "Honest about what?"

  "My, uh...you know..."

  "I'm listening..."

  "Okay. My addiction. Fine, I said it. I'm totally dependant on my pills to survive. Please don't hate me for this..."

  "Darley, of course not. I love you like a sister. But what are you going to do about it?"

  "I don't know. Maybe you've got some advice. I've run out of answers. I'm just surviving from one minute to the next. Just barely."

  "Look, I'm glad you confided in me. I'm no expert. But I know a little about addiction. Back when I was practicing law full-time I had a few clients dealing with similar issues. And I know enough to know that your willingness to admit you've got a problem is the first big step."

  "That's good to hear..."

  "The next step is to find a place that is discreet, where counselors can help you to kick this thing. I can help you look for a good rehab center."

  Darlene was weeping gently.

  Abigail continued, "You're also going to have to talk to Fort about this..."

  "Abby, he's going to be devastated..."

  "But he loves you, Darley. I'm sure he'll support you. But there's one more thing, an even more important step..."

  Just then the waitress walked by. Darlene glanced at the last pill bottle on the table, snatched it, and quickly thrust it back into her purse.

  She then looked up at Abigail through her tears and asked, "An even more important step? Like what?"

  "You said it yourself."

/>   "I did?"

  "Yes. When you said the words God help me...I believe He can and He will. If you let Him. God's in the business of fixing people."

  Darlene's face relaxed into a mildly surprised look. As if she had just been told something she assumed she had known all along but now realized she had never really thought about.

  PART TWO

  When the Lion Tells the Story

  In less than a generation, the five intertwined media corporations have enlarged their influence in the home, school, and work lives of every citizen. Their concentrated influence exercises political and cultural forces reminiscent of the royal decrees of monarchs rejected by the revolutionists of 1776.

  Ben H. Bagdikian, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist

  The media can determine foreign policy, and it can help to win or lose wars. It can bring about recession, or it can bolster confidence in the economy. In short, we live in a dictatorship of the media. It controls what we know, what we think, and what we buy. It is not Big Brother we have to fear as much as it is Citizen Kane. And if we are to be really free, we must lift the veil that blinds us.

  Tom Neumann, publisher, The Journal of International Security Affairs

  By contrast, in the case of the BBC and CNN, you are explicitly aware that rather than presenting the world as they find it, those channels are taking a distinct side--the left-liberal internationalist side--in an honest and fundamental debate over foreign policy.

  Robert D. Kaplan, "Why I Love Al Jazeera," The Atlantic (October 2009)

  TWENTY-SIX

  Jerry Hendrickson was pacing back and forth like a hamster in a cage. It was one of those cold-sweat moments.

  As desk manager for the Global News Network's Los Angeles studio, Jerry had just finished reading the thick transcript of congressional testimony. It was stunning. Now he was on the horns of a dilemma. He glanced at his watch. Bob Kosterman, the executive vice president of the network, should have left his private lunch in Washington with Vice President Tulrude at the Executive Mansion about five minutes ago. Jerry was scheduled to call Bob right about now, while Kosterman was alone inside the limo furnished by the administration and being driven back to the airport.