The Artifact Page 8

  Eddie acknowledged the barbed compliment with downcast eyes.

  “The risks I mentioned are very real,” his uncle continued. “I do not wish the family to be drawn into a public light about this treasure.” He paused as the counterman placed steaming cups of foaming brown liquid and a plate of assorted cookies on the table and retreated.

  “I discussed this venture with the consigliore after the television broadcast. We must exercise alert patience until this treasure is located and its value confirmed.”

  “I understand, Uncle Vinnie.”

  The fat man selected a pink cookie from the plate, dipped it in his espresso, placed the entire delicacy in his mouth and chewed slowly, as Eddie raised his cup to blow on the scalding drink.

  “Tell Guido that you are to assist him as he sees fit.” Vincent Tomassi picked up the morning newspaper he had placed at his side on the bench. “The consigliore is a better teacher than the professors you had up there at Brown’s College.”

  The younger man rose from the booth, smiling. “Prego, Uncle Vinnie.”

  “Embrace your mother for me,” the fat man called after him.

  Andrea shoved through the revolving doors of Watergate Towers looking like a combatant street peddler with trench coat draped over the wheeled suitcase dragging behind her, tote bag slung over her shoulder, ambling across the wide expanse of lobby to a bank of elevators. She was aware and disturbed that she was leaning more heavily on her cane this morning than yesterday. After her interview with Carr, she had taken the rented Ford directly to the return site at the airport. As she was driving up to the check-in gates, her foot had slipped off the brake pedal and she had rear-ended the vehicle parked ahead of her, causing substantial damage to both cars. Although no one had been hurt, Andrea was concerned about the cause of the accident: it was her left leg that had been giving her problems; why had her right foot jammed onto the accelerator? She tried to push that nagging question from her mind as she squeezed into the first ascending elevator to the NNC offices above, getting off on the floor below her own on which the station’s research department was located.

  “Sammy.” She poked her head around the doorway of the MIS Manager’s office. “Anything new?”

  “It’s a wasteland out there.”

  “Shades of Newton Minow.”

  “Who?”

  “TV prophet, head of FCC back in the ‘70’s. Let’s find a conference room.”

  Sammy pecked at his keyboard, scooped up several sheets of printout from his desk, grabbed his half empty cup of coffee and followed her into the hallway. As soon as she closed the door of the tiny meeting room, Sammy asked, “What about Mitchell’s squad leaders?”

  Andrea pulled her beat-up pack of unfiltered Pall Malls from the belly bag around her waist, shook one out and lit up with a butane lighter, blowing the smoke away from Sammy’s wrinkled nose.

  “I called Bragg. Brooks has been transferred off the post. They won’t tell me where, and nobody else is authorized to give out that personnel info. Callaghan won’t take my calls again.”

  “The only site I could find for casualties on the Web was the Iraq War Memorial,” Sammy said. “Probably one of the few sites Callaghan couldn’t pull off line because his Third Battalion data is an integral part of the whole.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Cumulative statistics for all branches by name and major unit. Division and battalion for

  the 82nd, names, rank, no contact info.”

  “Nuts!”

  Sammy proffered the printout. “The 82nd had 546 Killed In Action, since April, Third Battalion, 114.”

  “How does that compare to other units?”

  Sammy pulled a calculator out of his shirt pocket. “Wait a sec.”

  He murmured the raw numbers as he pressed them into the device, then wrote the values on the printout. “KIA for the entire Division is roughly one percent. Callaghan’s Battalion, about one and a half.”

  “That’s fifty percent more than the whole.”

  “My calculations are ballpark. I’ll have to check other units for anomalies to confirm them.”

  Andrea’s brow furrowed at some inner thought, and they stood in silence for several minutes as she absorbed the data. “How do we find out if there’s a concentration of casualties in Callaghan’s Bravo Company, ideally Mitchell’s Second Platoon?”

  “That occurred during late March, their Dark Dawn mission, despite Brooks’ denial.”

  “Any way you can dig deeper for that?”

  “I can try,” Sammy said.

  “It’s starting to make sense.”

  “One way or another,” Sammy ventured, “stumble on an old trunk full of gold, precious jewels....”

  “Whatever. A fight started, the troopers drove the Arabs off, and smuggled the trunk back to the States.”

  “So, we’re looking for a squad or fire-team,” Sammy said, “about seven, fifteen people.”

  “In Mitchell’s platoon, from which we don’t have a single name except his.”

  “Perpetrators who won’t ‘fess up and Mitchell who’s dead and can’t. Confirming a high casualty rate in one of the squads in his Second Platoon could point a pretty damning finger at that unit.”

  Andrea frowned into space for several moments. “What a way for the perps to hide.”

  “Wow! Get listed as KIA or MIA, you can’t be a suspect, never get questioned by Military Intelligence.”

  “What about their families,” Andrea wondered. “They’d be crushed that their son or husband was killed.”

  “There’d be no bodies to bury. If they were able to insert the names on the KIA list after the initial compilation, families wouldn’t be notified, and the perps could arrange for e-mails to continue being sent home from Iraq....”

  “We need that platoon list, Sam.”

  “I don’t know when I can get to this stuff, Andy.”

  “What’s the problem, date nite at the public baths?”

  “T.P. gave me a laundry list of queries on the Preacher Lady. On orders from Duncan.”

  “I’ll handle Duncan.” She squashed her cigarette butt out in Sam’s empty coffee cup on the table. “You crank that list up to warp speed.”

  “I don’t want to throw cold water on this, but I keep wondering why one of the thieves, somebody, hasn’t spilled the beans.”

  Andrea shouldered her carryall, her expression reflecting irritation. “Because the perps stole the damned thing witnessed only by the Bedouins and haven’t told anyone else. Who’s going to call?”

  “Someone suspicious, jealous. An informer would need a big incentive to make it worth his while blowing the whistle.”

  Andrea’s eyes snapped wide open as the carryall slid from her shoulder. “A reward! Beautiful, Sam. Absolutely beautiful!” She turned to face him. “We could get the names of suspects, clandestine activity, stuff people held back from the MI investigation.”

  “Leads.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Sammy, if you didn’t prefer boys, I would lock that door and fuck your brains out here and now.”

  “I do not prefer boys,” he said. “I like men. What do you think I am, a priest?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Washington, DC

  October 2004

  She took the elevator up to the editorial floor, stalking down the narrow corridor, thrusting her wooden cane angrily onto the beige carpet. The news director’s secretary greeted her warmly and offered coffee as T.P. signaled through the glass enclosure of his office that his meeting with three staff members would be over shortly.

  By the time she had finished her coffee in the reception area and settled into the leather armchair beside T.P.’s desk, she had calmed down appreciably.

  “The rough cut of your Preacher tape looks good,” he told her.

  “I finally have some hard leads on the artifact.”

  T.P. pushed the rolled sleeves of his blue chambray shirt above his elbow, his expres
sion neutral. “What?”

  “A couple of sources claim the biggest challenge the thieves would have had was getting the

  treasure out of Iraq. If anyone saw anything suspicious or was bribed to look the other way it would have been an MP.”

  “You find a suspect?”

  “In the process.”

  “Pretty thin, Andy.”

  “Another strong possible is an apparent high number of casualties in Bravo Company. If we can nail those down to a squad or two in Mitchell’s Second Platoon, the KIA’s were probably sustained in the Bedouin firefight, and/or the thieves got themselves listed as deceased to avoid detection.”

  T.P. shook his head in negation. “Duncan wants you off the artifact until you have hard evidence, not just wild geese.”

  “How the hell am I going to get evidence if I don’t look for it?”

  “Our lead human interest story is the Preacher Lady.”

  “Like everyone else.”

  “You have an inside track with that interview. Go back out and follow it up.”

  “She’s an idiot. She’s preaching a premise designed to anger every religious sect and person on the planet.”

  “That’s news, Andy!”

  Andy exhaled, lowering her shoulders. “I’ll flesh out my notes to bracket the tape. When do you want me to air it?”

  “Duncan wants Frank to do it.”

  “Duncan! Hang tight, Toilet, because I’ll square this away pronto.” She pushed up from her chair and T.P. stood with her, holding his hand up. “Sit down, Andy, you can’t win this.”

  “He can force me to cover the Preacher, but I will not play girl reporter feeding my copy to

  Frank.”

  “Why do you always create problems?”

  “Randy ‘Boy’ Duncan’s got the problem, Toilet. Brushing my artifact research aside for background on a certifiably crazy religious fanatic.”

  Andrea stared poison darts at Viola for several seconds. “If you’re going to shackle me to this loser Preacher, I’m going to own it.” She grabbed her cane and bolted through the door, stumbling at the threshold when her left leg almost gave way beneath her weight.

  “Andy,” he called after her. “Andy!”

  Andrea limped down the corridor to the elevators, jabbed the ‘UP’ button half a dozen times, glanced at the floor indicator, then toward the stairwell. She massaged her left thigh wondering again what was wrong with it. Once on the executive floor above, she marched past the receptionist, ignoring her call to stop, rounded a corner leaving a half-dozen secretaries with their eyes popping, flung open the door of Rand Duncan’s office and burst inside it with his administrative assistant sputtering behind her.

  “Why did you give Frank Morrissey my Preacher interview without even the courtesy of telling me?”

  Rand Duncan occupied the head of a conference table reflecting the overhead lights off polished nara wood, with several VPs and department heads gathered around him.

  “Come back later, Madigan,” he said, clenching his fists on the gleaming surface. “I am quite busy at the moment, as you can see.”

  “I don’t care if you’re signing the Mid-East Peace Treaty, friend, we are going to have this out now!”

  Duncan’s boyish face was turning red, but he managed to keep his voice calm. “Please see

  my assistant on your way out, and he will try to squeeze you in for a few minutes tomorrow

  morning.”

  She addressed the dumbfounded men and women around the table staring at her with slack jaws. “You can stay where you are and get subpoenaed by my attorney in my contract dispute, or pack up and get out of here pronto!”

  Every head in the room turned to Duncan.

  “OK, take a break,” he told them. Andy envisioned spirals of smoke coming out of his ears.

  The room was cleared in seconds, and the assistant shut the door behind him. Duncan rose from his chair and leveled an outstretched finger at Andrea. “If you ever, ever, ever, pull a rude, unprofessional stunt like that again I will fire you on the spot.”

  “Why did you assign Frank to present my Preacher interview?”

  “He is our primary anchor and it is my prerogative to do so.”

  Andrea took a couple of steps in his direction and stopped with her hand on the back of one of the chairs that had just been vacated. “On a whim, Randy?”

  “May I remind you that my name is ‘Rand,’ not its diminutive? Or Mister Duncan is probably more appropriate.”

  “And you want me to drop the artifact just when I’m getting good leads?”

  “Not in my opinion.”

  Andrea shook a cigarette out of her pack, lit up, and replaced the crumpled red package in her belly purse. “First you pull me off my best story, then assign me some bogus religious nut, and now give my exclusive interview to some white-haired talking head that never leaves the building.”

  “Do not smoke in my office.” Andrea blew a lungful of smoke in his direction and Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Neither one is your story, Miz Madigan. They are NNC’s stories, the television news corporation that employs you and compensates your efforts with a rather inflated

  salary.”

  “Lay it out, Randy, what’s going on in that nasty little mind?”

  “Yes, Miz Madigan, you might as well know how I intend to run our news items and this organization of which I am president and chief executive officer.”

  “Please!”

  “From now on, Patricia Zonfirelli will be in complete charge of the so-called Iraq antiquities theft. She will coordinate all related assignments with T.P. Viola, and act as our pool contact.”

  Andrea laughed. “Your supposedly clandestine, airhead punch?”

  “Do not stoop to personal insults.”

  “What about me? The little ol’ gal who dug all that up in the first place?”

  “You will continue covering the Preacher Lady, which in my estimation is far more newsworthy than the elusive artifact. Hand all your notes, files and sources on the latter over to Patty, Miz Zonfirelli. Brief her on the totality of your investigation to date.”

  Andrea had been listening calmly to Duncan’s pronouncements, standing with arms folded under her breasts heaving beneath the cotton jersey. “Like hell I will!” she exploded. “I didn’t break the artifact story by waiting for Shep Smith to tell me which sand dune to dig in!”

  “I believe I have clarified your assignment,” Duncan said. “Do you have any questions, Miz Madigan?”

  “Just one. May I use your phone?”

  “Wait until you get down to your own office.”

  She strode past him, pressed the speaker button on his desk console and dialed a long distance number from memory. “I want you to hear this, Randy.”

  “NBC, good afternoon,” a woman answered.

  Andrea said, “Dick Nuzzo, please.”

  “What is this?” Duncan said.

  “Shut up and listen, Randy. You made your speech.”

  A pleasant voice came through the speakerphone, “Mister Nuzzo’s office, Miz Rogers speaking, how may I help you?”

  This is Andrea Madigan at NNC, Miz Rogers. I need to speak to Dick right away.”

  “Oh, Miz Madigan! I’m sure he would take your call immediately, but he’s participating in a major client presentation and he left specific instructions not to interrupt.”

  “Well, I can tell you have the authority to make critical judgments for Dick, Miz Rogers, so I’m going to ask you to decide if you should give him this message: ‘pick up the phone in three minutes and you’ll get a chance to bid on everything I’ve turned up on the Arab antiquities theft during the past eighteen months. If he doesn’t, I’m going to hang up and make the same offer to CBS.”

  “Hold on, Miz Madigan, I’ll....”

  “OK! OK!” Duncan shouted, waving his arms. “You win this round.”

  Andrea made a quick apology to Nuzzo’s secretary and said she would call Dick back later to e
xplain. She still wanted to talk to him, but the urgency had just been removed.

  She broke the connection and started moving toward Duncan. “Don’t you ever try to push me against a wall again, you little twerp.” The network division president took an involuntary step back. “Because next time, I will make that call from my own office, and you won’t know shit from Shinola until the entire legal department of my new employer ties you and NNC up with more injunctions than a monkey’s got bananas.” She stopped two feet from where he was standing. “Do you catch my drift, Randy?”

  “You will live to regret this incident, Miz Madigan.”

  “I keep the artifact story.”

  “Do not expect to put me over a barrel like this on every issue, Andrea. I will not be bullied

  by an employee.”

  “I’ll guarantee that a couple of news orgs will try to grab the limelight by offering a reward for information leading to the antiquities thieves or the artifact itself.”

  Duncan’s eyes grew wide as he grasped an idea that would assume an aggressive investigative news posture for the station, and cost nothing unless the artifact became a reality. “So we offer one first!”

  “I offer it. During our six o’clock.”

  “No, I think it would make more sense from a corporate standpoint if our primary anchor made an announcement of this kind.”

  Andrea stood with hands on hips for several moments, her face devoid of expression.

  “OK, OK.” He waved a hand in the air. “Offer the damned reward yourself.”

  “Randy, my boy, if you just leave me alone to do my job, you’ll have no trouble with me. All I want is to crack this artifact trunk wide open, and put me, NNC, and even you, my chicken-livered child, right up there on top of the news heap for our fifteen minutes of fame and glory.”

  “I’m not a bad guy to work with.” Duncan stuck out a hand, which Andrea ignored. “I think, $5, $10,000 will be adequate.”

  “People offer a grand to find a missing cat! A disgruntled thief is not going to walk away from millions for a couple of thousand bucks.”

  “We don’t have a huge amount of money to throw away on wishful thinking.”