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Roper says, “There’s not much here beyond the piece that Vicky the Vampire moved overnight.”
Tom gathers himself and says, “Vicky’s piece was just a news brief. I got a few additional comments from reps in the DoD and unnamed folks I know in the intelligence world, plus some background info on the use of mercenary forces by the government in the past few years.”
“Is this the big piece you told me about at lunchtime the other day? If so, it’s a piece of shit.”
The lack of sleep last night, Denise calling him a liar, and his attempts to find out what’s going on with Amy bubble up inside Tom. “With all due respect, Dylan, it’s got my name on it, so it’s not a piece of shit. And that’s a story that broke overnight. The piece I’m working on is going to be much, much bigger.”
Roper crumples up the paper, tosses it in a nearby wastebasket. “How much bigger?”
That message from Yuri:
Get out of New York.
“It might approach 9/11 bigger.”
Roper’s eyes widen. “You bullshitting me?”
“No.”
Roper rubs his chin. “If you’re right, that’s going to be one hell of a story. Remember post-9/11, when it was revealed that the FBI field office in Phoenix had sent out a warning in July 2001 about Arabic students taking flight-training lessons? Some of them were at the controls on 9/11. Yet that warning was ignored—the intelligence agencies were too busy following procedures and protecting their turf.”
Tom says, “Yeah, I remember. Lots of folks have forgotten, but not me.”
His boss says, “Imagine if one of those FBI agents back then had gotten angry enough to leak it to theNew York Timesor the AP. The story could have broken back then…the plot could have been stopped dead in its tracks. Pulitzers all around, thousands of lives saved, a couple of wars averted.”
Tom thinks about that, his hands feeling cool with anticipation. His boss is oh so very right.
Roper says, “How much longer?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“Have you reached out to your wife, Amy?”
One of his phones starts to ring. He ignores it.
“My wife and I keep our separate careers separate,” Tom says, repeating what he’s said before to Roper and others here at Criterion.
“But she works for the CIA, right? Or the NSA? Or something like that?”
His phone keeps on ringing.
“She’s a government contractor,” Tom says. “You know that.”
“So why aren’t you using her as a source?”
“She wouldn’t be my source,” Tom says, “and I’m not going to ask her.”
Roper nods with disdain. “All right. Then get the story, one way or another. Nail it—or you can explain to Amy how the two of you are going to support a family living in Manhattan on one salary.”
His boss leaves the office and Tom kicks the side of his desk, and notes that his phone has stopped ringing.
Damn.
Which one?
He checks out his office phone and his two burner phones. They turn up empty, but his personal iPhone is winking at him.
Voicemail message.
