Another five seconds ticked off, which further added to the audience’s anticipation.
“You’re going to demand a recall of the administration! Taylor goes — like he was supposed to. He lost, for God’s sake. And this will be the way you — citizens of a Strong Nation — can hand him his walking papers.”
He took his break and plugged in his laptop computer. Nothing unusual. Everyday, the Air Force One mechanic checked his e-mail and surfed the Net. Anyone looking over his shoulder would be amazed at his interests: Classic baseball cards, lunch boxes, comic books. His hobby was buying and selling. He did most of his work over eBay.
He scanned the list of new postings for 1955 Bowman baseball cards. Although they weren’t the most valuable cards in the market, collectors considered them unique because of their design. Pictures were framed horizontally in a wood-grain color TV monitor, rather than a typical vertical pose in a plain border.
Finding cards in great condition was the challenge. The 320-card 1955 set was the last issued by the Bowman Gum Company of Philadelphia. The cards are susceptible to easy corner chipping. The slightest flaking on the edges generally leads to exposure of the white cardboard underneath the photograph, which immediately downgrades a card’s worth. Also, the cards were routinely printed off center; another reason why the set, though singularly distinctive, isn’t among the most popular.
The mechanic was only interested in one card: #37 with famed Brooklyn Dodgers’ shortstop, Pee Wee Reese. The card depicted the star third baseman on his right knee. He held a baseball bat upside-down. The name REESE appeared as black capital letters over a white bar. The back had his personal stats and his batting records. The face value, in mint condition was an affordable $150. The card often showed up in Internet auctions. He could have bought it any number of times over the years, but he hadn’t.
He typically logged on once or twice a week to check the postings. He actually found this American hobby fun and a way to turn a buck. But he never completed his Bowman set collection, which would have been worth a little over $5,000. Maybe this trip, he thought.
He scrolled down the postings, expecting this to take no more than a few moments. Three ‘55 Reese cards were listed. One was a more expensive Topps card, two were Bowmans. He read what the collectors had written. The first Bowman advertised a card in fair condition, with an opening bid established at $19.50. The other offered a Reese in better shape and with the following description.
Harold “Pee Wee Reese” Brklyn Ddgr lft hander, Excellent to
Nr Mint — slight grease stain on back smudges birthdate
7/22/18
He almost missed it the first time. On the second pass the Air Force officer’s eyes widened. Lft hander. He looked over his shoulder. No one was nearby. He turned back to the computer screen. Birthdate 7/22/18. He’d waited years for this specific card listing. Now it had come.
He rested his fingers on the keys for three minutes without typing.
Reese threw and batted right-handed and his correct birthday was a day later, July 23.
The asking price was a sensible $111.50. He typed his bid, which was a tad higher.
5,000,000 Euro. Bidder 34423.
He’d thought for years about the exact amount to quote. Today’s price was higher due to the location and heightened security. But the seller obviously knew where he was. Glenbrook. He wanted the job done on the way back home.
He took a deep breath before hitting send. Yes. He was ready. He pressed enter. The information immediately charged through the Internet via a WiFi connection. To anyone else clicking on the auction it would look like a joke. But it was far from it. If the seller accepted the offer, half of the stated amount would be wired into an account under his real name. The remainder would be paid upon the successful completion of the mission.
Considering it might take a few hours before he had his answer, the officer powered down his computer and went back to work.
A few other crew members of Air Force One saw him smiling as he climbed back aboard the plane. Odd, they must have thought. He rarely smiles.
O’Connell’s four calls to Strong’s syndicator earned him little more than an exercise in futility. His first request was forwarded to the company publicist. No response. The second, for some reason, was routed to an accountant, who couldn’t understand why he got the call. The next two calls went to the president of the company, Charlie Huddle. O’Connell stated his request to the secretary, but was promptly returned to the publicist. He called back, complaining that he wanted to speak directly to Huddle. After being put on hold for nearly five minutes, during which time he had to listen to one of Strong’s broadcasts, the secretary finally punched back only to tell him, “Mr. Huddle is not available, but he recommends you visit StrongNationRadio.com for all information pertaining to the talk-show host.”
That’s where he began. Goddamned runaround! O’Connell spent most of his life discovering new ways to get around functionaries, roadblocks, and corporate assholes. Okay, let’s try the back door, he thought.
He used his cell phone this time, dialed the main number again, and started walking down the hall at a fast clip. The switchboard answered.
“Hello. Sales department, please.”
“Just a moment.”
By the time an assistant answered, O’Connell sounded out of breath — which he was.
“Hi there. Hope you can help me.” He kept walking. He seemed harried. “I’ve got a copy change on a web address for a commercial.”
“So?”
“So, it’s on Strong’s show. Today! Gotta get it right to him. What’s his direct?”
“Just a second, I’ll…”
“I don’t have any time. Got to get this right to him. You have the control room?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“The fucking URL is wrong. The client is going apeshit. If it hits the air that way, we’re gonna have a suit on our hands!”
“Okay, okay. Here it is.” She read off the number from a contact sheet.
“Got it,” O’Connell said. “Thanks.”
“What did you say your name is?”
He pressed end on his Blackberry and kissed the device. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
The two men sat and nursed their drinks and puffed on their Montecristos, quite legal in Australia.
“There’s no balls to it yet,” Morgan Taylor told the Australian prime minister. “Until this agreement grows some serious balls, it’s not going to mean a damned thing.”
“Morgan, these people can’t move as fast as you want. They’re afraid.”
“David, there’s an ancient Sephardic expression. You’re either on the train or under it. I want to be on it.”
“I know. So do I, but what do you want to do? Go in and punish Malaysia if they don’t weed out the Kumpulah Mujahedeen? Or the same with the JI in Indonesia? We can’t sanction our allies like that, Morgan.”
“No? Then we might as well hand over the keys to the front door to the enemy. Whoever they are. I’m sick and tired of signing agreements that don’t mean a fucking thing. They get our money. We offer protection. Do they really do anything in return to fight terrorists in their own backyard? No. And, they hate us no matter what.”