He looked at his reflection in the mirror again, noting the fatigue and sadness in his face. He decided what he needed was to go over to Virginia that weekend for some cross-country horse riding. That was one physical activity he was damn good at.
"Mr. Wallenger!"
The voice startled him, and Wallenger spun around. He saw Fred, the floor director, standing in the dressing room door with clipboard in hand. "Mr. Wallenger, it's time for you to come out to the set."
"Thanks, Fred."
Wallenger slipped into his jacket and grabbed his script, walking out of the room and down the hall. When he stepped onto the set, he saw Don Allen standing by the cameras. Allen came over to him. "How are you feeling, Dirk?"
"Okay," Wallenger said. "Don't worry. I'll do exactly as Brice said. But at the end of crying mea culpa, I have an announcement to make. I want you to pay close attention to it and acquiesce to what I plan to do."
"Now just a minute!" Allen said, walking toward the news desk at the journalist's side. "What is on your mind?"
Wallenger sat down. "You just listen."
"I'm warning you, Dirk. Any smart-ass action on your part could mean the absolute end of your career as a news-man."
"Quiet!" Fred hollered loudly. He looked at Wallenger. "Five, four, three, two, one, go!"
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Wallenger said the as the red light lit up on the center camera. "This is Dirk Wallenger with the news." He paused for a quick moment, then turned his eyes directly into the lens. "One of the most nutritious meals--spiritually nutritious, that is--is humble pie. And I am about to consume a great, big heaping dish of that bittersweet food."
Don Allen felt a little better, but he was still worried about what would be said at the end of the spiel.
"I made a mistake," Wallenger said. "A big mistake by journalistic standards. I inadvertently was given some erroneous information by a previously unimpeachable source and broadcast it to you without properly determining its veracity. The story to which I am referring is the one regarding a wounded Arab prisoner of war who was shot to death by his American captors. I informed you that they did this because they did not wish to be burdened with carrying him to a place where he could receive medical treatment for his injuries.
"The story is not true.
"The prisoner in question was indeed killed. But he was not wounded. In fact, he was in perfect health and attempting to escape. He was running away and refused to respond to orders to halt and ran into a rocky area, where he was bitten by a poisonous cobra snake. Unfortunately, the U. S. Navy SEALs who had captured him were unable to save his life because of a lack of proper medical supplies. He died from the reptile's bite rather than being summarily executed. Thus there was no violation of the Geneva Convention. No war crime was committed in this instance. It was a terribly unfortunate misadventure brought on the prisoner by his own actions.
"I apologize to you for my error and I promise you most sincerely and solemnly that I will never--never--repeat such misconduct. I consider it a sacred trust to get you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in my broadcasts. I shall be most diligent in following this self-appointed requisite in the future. I can only humbly beg you to keep your faith in me. I was wrong. And I am sorry for it.
"However, let me emphasize that my deep disapproval of the conduct of this war and the individuals in our national government who are mismanaging it continues unabated and stronger than ever. It is because of their incompetent arrogance and self-absorption that situations such as the faulty passing of information occur. They have, in fact, set up an environment of half-truths, outright lies, and other deceptions to cover up their errors in management and judgment in their so-called leadership in this tragedy in the Middle East."
Don Allen now breathed easier, but he felt a twinge of nervousness when Wallenger looked straight at him.
"Therefore," Wallenger continued, "rather than gather my news here in Washington, I intend to travel to the war zone, to be embedded with one of our fighting units. I will never again rely on what others tell me. I will report back to you from the battlefields and the field hospitals to give you the unvarnished truth of what is going on in that hellhole our government has created."
Fred the floor manager announced, "Fade to commercial! Three minutes!"
Allen walked over to the news desk. "Well done, Dirk. Are you serious about wanting to go to Iraq and/or Afghanistan?"
"That is my request, Don."
"Granted."
.
BALTSCHUG-KEMPINSKI HOTEL
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
25 AUGUST 2300 HOURS
THE hotel's luxury suites at its front corner looked out over the Moscow River, giving a magnificent view of the Kremlin. The red star mounted above the structure glowed a bright scarlet over the walls as Dr. Carl Joplin sipped coffee and gazed at the sight. It made him think of Josef Stalin and his cruel domination over the large populace of the now-defunct U. S. S. R. He thought of purges, arrests in the middle of the night, the Gulag with its myriad of death camps, and other horrible features of the despot's reign of terror. Somehow that historical knowledge gave not only the Kremlin but also the nearby St. Basil's Cathedral an aura of evil and hopelessness.
THIS long trip across the Atlantic and the Scandinavian nations into Russia had been unexpected and quite inconvenient. He had been hoping for a call from Saviz Kahnani, the Iranian charge d'affaires, in regard to the standoff along the border separating Iran and Afghanistan. There was always the possibility of some sort of breakthrough when least expected, but Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham had summoned him to his office with orders to go directly to Moscow. It was one of those "get over there yesterday" decrees that reminded him that he worked in an atmosphere in which his superiors exercised so much authority over his professional and personal life. To make matters worse, Bellingham had absolutely no idea what was going on.
"All I can say, Carl," the Secretary of State said irritably, "is that you are to meet your Russian counterpart in Moscow. I believe his name is Crash-Sinko or something."
"Krashchenko," Joplin said. "His name is Yuri Krashchenko."
"Oh, yeah, that's the guy," Bellingham said. "He wants you to be available at the usual spot sometime in the evening of the twenty-fifth. So you better hurry."
NOW Joplin was in the "usual spot," and he had been there since ten o'clock that morning. A bit more than thirteen hours had gone by since his arrival, and he was a trifle irritated with the delay. What if Kahnani was at this very moment trying to summon him? It was four o'clock in the afternoon back in Washington. The Iranian might want another one of those sessions at the Bonhomme Richard Club.
A knock at the door broke into the peevishness that Joplin was beginning to actively nurture. He walked from the living room to the hall, past the bathroom to the suite entrance. A glance through the peephole revealed a husky, athletic young man standing on the other side. That most certainly was not Yuri Krashchenko. Joplin opened the door.
"Dobriy vyechyir," Joplin said.
The young man ignored the greeting. "Tih Doktor Joplin?"
"Da," Joplin answered. Then he saw the short, stout figure of Krashchenko standing by the elevator. Joplin grinned and switched to English. "Come on in, Yuri. There are no secret agents here. I'm sure you can cross the hall in safety."
Krashchenko made no reply as he walked over with a briefcase shoved under his arm. He entered the suite, and since the brawny greeter showed no inclination to follow, Joplin closed the door. He took Krashchenko to the living room.
"Nice view, huh?" Joplin asked, gesturing toward the window.
"You have vodka?"
"Sure," Joplin replied. "Right over there, at the bar. All sorts of liquor came with the suite. Help yourself."