Deadline Man

***

I plan the structure of the story and write more. Every fact is multiple-sourced. When the business center gets busy, I go to an Internet café or a Kinko’s. I try not to spend too much time worrying about where the hell I will get it published.

The Free Press is out. “We’ve dealt with your publisher,” Heidi Benson had said with a chilling authority. Indeed, Olympic has powerful connections with business leaders and politicians; it will do everything it can to stop this story.

Everybody I knew back east has retired or been laid off. I send queries to Huffington Post and Talking Points Memo, realizing I am not enough of a celebrity to get the attention of the former, not an Ivy graduate to merit consideration by the latter. A quarter century in the working press means nothing. To get the attention of the news aggregator blogs, I will probably have to be published in a real newspaper first.

I can set up my own blog, or have Amber restart Conspiracy Grrl, but we would attract maybe a hundred readers. I focus on writing. My right hand aches from typing and stress. I am horny as hell.

***

I call Heidi Benson in the afternoon. Having a list of sources’ home and cell numbers is a wonderful thing. She’s so taken aback by hearing my voice that she falls into a momentary fugue state of candor, admitting that Praetorian is a unit of Olympic Defense Systems.

She quickly recovers, refusing to comment, making threats of lawsuits, saying I am “the worst journalist in Seattle” and “it’s too fucking bad you turned up alive.” I want to ask: From the ferry, or from your company’s death squad?

I say, “Praetorian waterboards innocent people.”

The pause is so long that I think she has hung up. Then, “Nobody will publish your pathetic lies,” and the line goes dead.

***

I have a working draft by Sunday night. It is datelined CORTEZ PEAK, ARIZ., and opens with an anecdotal lede, describing the fake prison. The nut graf says that Olympic International, far from being a boring natural resources company, is really a shell for as much as $20 billion in black-ops private defense dollars. And it’s most controversial secret subsidiary is a paramilitary unit called Praetorian that is prepared to respond to emergencies in the United States, including the sealing off of cities because of civil unrest or terrorist attack.

One military intelligence source says Praetorian has been hired and trained for this event because some policymakers question the reliability of American troops to carry out such orders.

***

I have an email exchange with a reliable, long-time source. He works for a government agency. When we’ve talked on the phone, I kid him that he’s really a spook. He laughs.

Now he’s more cynical than the most burned-out newspaperman. “The coup has already taken place. The big banks, the transnational corporations and, sure, the defense contractors own the government. The rich and the powerful get what they want. They can sway public opinion, get around the law. They can operate Praetorian in plain sight. Think what the name means—Praetorian…

“In my years of experience in developing countries, we are by far THE most corrupt country in the world. Nigeria and Indonesia are nothing compared to DeeCee.”

***

I polish the story. It’s a complicated topic—like life, and exactly the kind of thing newspapers avoid nowadays. So I work, feverish and precise, to use the written word as well as I know how, to explain, to unravel, to cut to the truth. I email copies to Amber and myself.

Amber said get the story and I did. I just don’t know where to get it published. My money is low. Now I’m nobody in the national media. I’m only known and respected in Seattle, and there I’m rapidly becoming a former somebody, with no column, no newspaper. I’m running out of options. Amber said get the story and I did. Now I can only hope she has her lifeline.

Then I go down to the bar and have two martinis and dinner. Sunday nights are always the most desolate. Desolation breeds regrets. I fall asleep and dream of working in a newsroom. Then I move into another dream where I am drowning. After I scream myself awake, I pick up the phone and make a call. We talk for three hours.

Chapter Forty-one

Monday, November 8th

It is full dark when the train pulls into Seattle. Every glimpse of the city looks as dear as a long-lost love. The last, slow pull into King Street Station seems as if it takes hours. I shake my right leg and shift the small black duffel bag. I have discarded some of the old clothes to make room for the files I printed out on the trip. Still, my mind is easy. Home is just a short walk from the station and I won’t have to make the walk alone. My su

it looks good and my tie is tightly knotted, all the way she likes it. The train car is full: couples, college kids, techy types, off-season tourists. The train comes to a complete halt by Safeco Field, then in five minutes creeps into a siding at the south end of the station. The platforms look empty.

The cold snaps at me before I even step off the car. It feels fine, especially after the desert. After a quick scan of the area, I step into the middle of a crowd of maybe a hundred people as we walk along the concrete platform. It smells like rain but the weather is dry. Beyond the platform’s overhang, the sky looks moody with pleated clouds reflecting the city lights. The historic brick station adds to the darkness, except for the warm lights glowing from the large doors that lead inside the waiting room. Rachel stands at the door along with a company of strangers waiting to greet the travelers. Her dark, curly hair falls down to a black sweater and she holds a coat over one arm. I want to fly to her, just like in the movies. But I make myself stay inside the clutch of travelers, checking my surroundings. No Stu, Bill or Laura. My insides relax. I can’t suppress a wide smile.

For ten seconds.

Rachel doesn’t wave. She doesn’t smile. She just stands there, almost braced at attention, staring at me, her eyes wide. I am maybe fifteen feet from the door when she silently mouths a single word.

Run.

I hesitate for a second, not wanting to believe it. Then I turn against the crowd and walk south quickly, past one railroad car, then another. I thread my way around the maintenance crew talking to the conductor and engineer. When I get to the locomotive it’s idling loudly and I look back. Bobbing above the people leaving the train is the prominent head of Morton “Stu” Farmer, former Marine recon. I curse under my breath. In the next seconds, the platform clears enough that Laura and Bill appear, all in their official dark suits, all headed for me. I’ve played this scene before and I’ll never play it again.