The Artifact Page 24

  “How about interspersing still shots of appropriate paintings by the old masters depicting first century biblical scenes,” Sammy suggested, “or drawings of whatever elements the document contains?”

  “Maybe run a split screen of key copy highlights while the presenter is speaking?” Andrea offered.

  “Clips from films tracing the life and times of the period,” Sammy said. “Spartacus, ‘Ben Hur.”

  Andrea’s voice was tiring. “What about shots of the original document in Aramaic?”

  “Not bad,” Sam agreed, without much enthusiasm. “Take the onus off the droning reader.”

  “How long is this thing?” T.P. asked.

  “According to Callaghan, about a hundred pages transcribed,” Andy answered.

  Sam wagged his head in dismay. “This could be deadly, despite the content, which might be boring in itself.”

  Andy lifted her hand an inch off the arm of her wheelchair in a gesture to halt their random suggestions, looking at T.P., who had listened intently, but had made no recommendation since the discussion began. “What say you, oh, Mighty Media Guru?”

  “Radio,” T.P. answered.

  Neither Andy nor Sam spoke for several moments, both television pros staring at Viola, attempting to absorb the outrageous idea, which initially struck them as preposterous. Until Andrea’s eyes became animated and she smiled at the news director with affection. “How to go, T.P.! ‘Theater of the mind.’ Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!”

  Sammy caught her excitement. “Let each person in the listening audience use their imagination to interpret the old guy’s story.”

  “No hokey visuals or other distractions from the story content, nothing contrived,” Andy said, “no post-broadcast charges that we engaged in subtle editorializing.”

  “Like radio’s heyday in the ‘30s and ‘40s’ with the whole family crowded around the set,” T.P. said, “everyone hushed, afraid to miss a single word.”

  Sammy had been born well after television had supplanted radio as the country’s primary broadcast medium, but remembered his parents’ sentimental reminiscences of that ubiquitous medium. “People in cars pulling over to the side of the road to concentrate on live news, the Hindenburg disaster, Roosevelt’s declaration of war on Japan, the immortal words that December

  7th would live as ‘a day of infamy, his fireside chats”

  “‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?’” T.P. quoted.

  “‘The Shadow knows, ha, ha, ha, ha,’” Andrea croaked with the old program announcer’s answer.

  “They knew even then what lurked in men’s hearts,” T.P. quipped.

  “Screw the TV nets,” Andrea said.

  Viola tempered their enthusiasm. “Callaghan insists we get it to an international audience simultaneously. But it’s too long to put out all at once.”

  “How do we send it in segments without tipping off where we are? What might be coming in subsequent episodes. Keep the press, religious groups and government from storming in here like cattle?”

  They were all stumped until Sammy suggested satellite transmission. There were hundreds of radio relay satellites orbiting the earth at different altitudes that were designed to receive, amplify and redirect analog and digital signals with a wide band of carrier frequencies. Their best bet would be an MEO, or Medium Earth Orbit station that takes about six hours to circle the earth during which they are visible from any given point for a few hours. Sam would select a satellite with ‘bent pipe architecture’ designed exclusively to accept, process and redirect incoming signals back down to earth.

  They could rent the special communications equipment and software in Hartford or Boston; pre-record the manuscript in two or three segments for uplink to a satellite passing overhead in the right time frame and orbit; then send the downlink codes, schedules, and sat designation to the radio networks and local stations via anonymous e-mail.

  “We could demand our chosen air schedules,” Sammy continued, “or threaten to withhold further transmissions. Since an uplink takes only seconds to transmit, no one could trace it unless they knew the precise time, satellite, and frequency employed.”

  “Who do we get to read the manuscript?” Andrea asked.

  Viola answered without hesitation. “Frank Morrissey.”

  Andy’s tone was weak, but incredulous. “That prima donna?”

  “He does seem stiff and distant on the tube,” T.P. said, “but he’s one of the best voice-overs I’ve ever worked with.”

  “Kind of a stiff in real life, too,” Sam added.

  “But a real pro when you get him off-camera,” T.P. continued. “Excellent sight-reader, understated, dramatic delivery, and doesn’t try to infuse the script with his own ideas.”

  “He doesn’t have any ideas,” Andrea whispered.

  When the laughter subsided, Sammy asked, “So, Frank’s going to read the entire manuscript?”

  T.P. glanced at Andy, lifting his arms with an embarrassed shrug.

  “I can hardly talk now,” Andrea rasped. “How in hell would a several billion people glued to their stereos understand me?”

  Sammy got up and went to the phone. “It’s your story, Princess, we have to keep you in it.”

  Sammy dialed a number from memory, and after a five-minute wait, Dr. Lawton came on the line, then listened patiently to his concern regarding Andy’s worsening symptoms and their specific problem with her almost unintelligible speech.

  “Is there anything you can do to make her voice more intelligible?”

  “There are several communications enhancements from scribble pads to computer-aided speech and voice synthesizers,” Lawton replied. “Stay on the line and my secretary will give you the numbers for the Washington chapter of the ALS Association. Give Andrea my best, please, and have my secretary set up an appointment for her within the next two weeks.”

  The two other news people had listened to Sammy’s end of the phone call in silence.

  “Maybe there’s a way to have Andy make a short intro using some kind of electronic

  device,” Sam said, holding his hand up to forestall protests from Andy. “Let me check it out before you shoot it down, OK?”

  T.P. turned to Andrea, his warning laced with sympathy. “Just don’t get your hopes up. The initial explanation of the autobiography will be critical to comprehending the content, making it a ‘must’ listen for the entire international population.”

  Sammy’s pleading gaze held Andrea’s eyes, troubled with uncertainty. “If there’s a way for you to do this,” he asked her “you’ll do it, right?”

  She moved her head up and down, her eyes bright, her lips mouthing the word, “Yes!”

  Andrea believed she could cut almost any deal she devised in her offer to air their planned wrap-up on whatever medium she chose, but decided on NBC, whose V.P. News Director she had known for years.

  Dick Nuzzo did not take or return her calls until her fourth attempt. After his brief commiseration regarding her unfortunate illness, he listened to her imprecise explanation of her request.

  “You’re asking me to consent to air a panel discussion you won’t describe, whose content you will not disclose, and participants you will not reveal?” Nuzzo sounded sympathetic to her impaired speech, but outraged at her request. “Pay you the reward we promised for discovering this so-called priceless treasure, now a mysterious ancient document, sight unseen ?”

  “I can’t be more specific until....”

  “When you can be, Andy, send a memo.”

  Her voice was beginning to tire, her indignation muted. “Do you realize what you’re passing ....”

  “Gotta run, Andy, good luck elsewhere.”

  “Your blind arrogance is going to shut you out of this, Dicky. You’ll end up the Industry Dummy when I break it.”

  “You’re a pain in the butt, Andy. You’ve alienated all of the people you ever worked for, most of your associates, half of your peers in broadcast news,
ninety percent of the people you’ve interviewed--do you have any friends?”

  Andrea closed her eyes, blinking tears away as Sammy lowered the phone and broke the connection. She took as deep a breath as her condition allowed before urging Sam to dial their next call.

  Callaghan looked through the open doorway of Andrea’s bedroom to make certain she was awake, then knocked on the doorjamb. “Are you up for a bit of company?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The general closed the door behind him and folded his lank frame clothed in army fatigues into the chair drawn up to the side of her bed. The casual uniform was shorn of rank and other adornments, his expression serious. He aligned the chair to face her head propped up on incline of the hospital bed and double pillows. “We haven’t had an opportunity to talk other than as adversaries, and I wanted to extend my profound sympathy for your condition.”

  “I guess we’re on the same team, now.”

  “You’ll probably think this is just flattery, but I have admired you, your reportorial talent, for years.”

  Andrea’s smile was genuine. “You could have fooled me.”

  “I’m rather embarrassed strolling in here baring my soul.”

  “Ready to give me the unexpurgated version of Mitchell’s breakdown?”

  “Something more personal.”

  “Sounds like a confession coming.”

  Callaghan smiled at her in a way that told her to hold the cynicism and be quiet for a change.

  “I’ve watched you on TV reporting the news from various trouble spots around the globe, many times in the thick of it, tsunami aftermath, 9/11, toxic fires. I was impressed by your courage when you tried to jump into northern Iraq with Bravo Company with a bum leg.”

  “Didn’t stop you from booting me off.”

  “Then our meeting at Fort Bragg. I might never have had the intestinal fortitude to tell you these things under normal circumstances, but I felt a certain, I don’t know, chemistry, I guess, at least on my part.”

  “But since I won’t be around much longer....”

  “Please don’t trivialize my feelings, Andy.” Callaghan stood. “I just wanted you to know. Whether you reciprocate or not.”

  “Please stay, General. A gal needs a chance to assimilate such a bold and totally unexpected declaration.”

  “Clyde, please.” He resumed his seat, more relaxed. “I wouldn’t want to be sitting in the Old Soldiers Home twenty years from now, castigating myself for not telling you.”

  “You’ve never married?” she asked.

  They exchanged backgrounds, during which she moved her hand to the side of the bed and he placed his upon it. They talked about liaisons with the wrong people for the wrong reasons, imprudent marriages, the wariness that comes with romantic failures, the still lingering question of parenting children, abandoning them to traipse around the globe, the difficulties of busy, dedicated people finding the time and will to place anyone ahead of their driven pursuit of success.

  Late afternoon shadows were creeping across the unlit room when Andrea brought them back to their meeting in his Fort Bragg office. “I recall we agreed that your business was keeping secrets and mine exposing them.”

  “I hope you can appreciate my prevarication now.”

  “An honorable man.”

  “I trust you’re not referring to Marc Antony’s ironic eulogy of Caesar.”

  “It must have been a tough decision. Deceiving your superiors, your government.”

  “Even before I knew its content, the dates on the manuscript indicated it could have profound historical implications. Unearthed by the representatives of a warring Christian nation in a desert surrounded by Muslim states that would probably destroy it, I realized that on the basis of ownership alone, it could only exacerbate the Mid-Eastern crisis. To be frank, with all the political dissention going on here lately, I didn’t even trust my own government to handle the document responsibly. They’d either bury it in some dank archive, hand it over to a contentious religious consortium or outright destroy it. Surrendering that parchment to any authority with a vested interest would probably see it lost to mankind, edited, refuted, contradicted and debated out of context; the veracity of the author, the entirety of his intended message hacked to shreds. I bypassed the chain of command, took it to the Secretary of State with certain stipulations.”

  “At which point, your career was walking a high wire, no net.”

  Frank Morrissey’s truly limited imagination, characteristic insecurity—or rare instance of good judgment, resulted in his initial reluctance to vacate his lucrative anchor desk at NNC. Whatever his misgivings, they were eventually overcome by T.P.’s repeated assertion that after his momentous radio broadcast, Frank could expect to command almost any broadcast job in the country.

  With Frank on board, T.P. contacted the major radio networks with only a vague description of the biographical document. Unlike the cut-throat competition among other news outlets, those second-tier radio executives relied on the integrity and reputations of Anthony Viola and Andrea Madigan to justify grabbing the opportunity to scoop all other media by making a tentative commitment to air the document pending proof of authenticity and approval of content. They agreed to work in concert and feed program content to other nations via satellite for translation into their respective languages and rebroadcast.

  “I suggested they warn foreign stations in advance,” TP said, “they’ll need a sight reader like the UN translators. English to their own language.”

  “What about print media?” Andrea asked.

  “TP gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Let ‘em struggle with it. We want them behind the curve of the radio broadcasts anyway, to prevent their instant editorializing.”

  Viola planned to issue advance notice of the special radio programs to all media, accompanied by the startling disclosure that the rumored antique treasure was in fact a first century autobiography written by the younger brother of Jesus Christ. The ancient document would be presented in its entirety in two separate one-hour radio broadcasts on the following Monday and Tuesday at seven P.M. Eastern Standard Time. Immediately following each radio segment, hard copies of the content would be distributed to all TV, international news services and print media via e-mail. Television networks would be encouraged to schedule panel discussions of religious leaders following the final radio broadcast.

  “Could anyone trace these transmissions to us?” Cassandra wanted to know. “Here?”

  “They’d have to be setup to do it with pretty sophisticated equipment,” Sammy answered.

  “We don’t want to wake up to a yard full of reporters the morning after our first broadcast,” Geoff said.

  “Or worse,” Callaghan added.

  Geoff looked at Sammy. “I think we can handle that.”

  “First segment on Monday,” Callaghan said. “When do you issue the promo?”

  “Thursday midnight,” T.P. told him. “After the eleven o’clock news and the morning papers are put to bed. Give them Friday to digest, reflect, decide if and how to run it. Let them blast the concept out Saturday, and importantly, Sunday, all day Monday.”

  “Do you think some news outlets will refuse to run it?” Cassandra asked.

  “They couldn’t afford not to,” T.P. said, “with our accompanying authentication, knowing its universal release. When they report it and how they spin it is something else.”

  T.P. passed out copies of the strategy memo he had prepared with Andrea, and they all scanned the pages in silence until reaching the final sheet, the proposed press release they studied for several minutes.

  For Immediate Release

  2,000 year-old autobiography of brother of Jesus

  by Andrea Madigan

  During a hostage confrontation in the Syrian Desert with

  Arab nomads last April in the initial stage of the Iraq war,

  this correspondent learned that a purported priceless treasure

  had been excava
ted from the Syrian Desert and smuggled

  back to America by unknown troopers of the 82nd

  Airborne Division, as described by yours truly on national

  television in September of this year.

  Subsequent investigation has determined that the

  ancient artifact in question does not contain gold or

  precious gems as suspected, but is in reality an autobiography

  written in the year 72 CE by Shimon, the younger brother of

  Jesus of Nazareth.

  Although government and military officials have denied know-

  ledge of any purloined artifact, interviews with current and discharged

  army personnel, plus other inquiries have recently located the so-

  called thieves, and the artifact itself, which has been confirmed as

  the Shimon Autobiography originally written in Aramaic on

  carefully preserved papyrus. During the past eighteen months,

  the document has been translated into English, authenticated by

  ancient history experts, renowned anthropologists and paleontol-

  ogists. This manuscript has been translated into the vernacular

  Shimon would have used today, rather than the awkward sentence

  structure and stilted vocabulary resulting from the more literal

  rendition of biblical and similar ancient documents.

  The remainder of the press release described the radio program schedule and virtual simultaneous international distribution to other media via the Internet in encoded e-mail.

  Less than an hour after that startling promotional broadcast, the White House Press Secretary issued a supportive and sympathetic announcement: the President had issued carte blanche amnesty to the ‘discoverers’ of the ancient manuscript and ordered all law enforcement agencies in the country to harbor and protect both the precious autobiography and people involved. The Administration fervently urged the discoverers to contact the nearest F.B.I. office for their own safety and that of the document. The Government would take every possible precaution to maintain the integrity of the original scroll, ensure its authenticity, the accuracy of translation and dissemination to the world population at the proper, most auspicious time.