watched his younger colleague’s face fall. “What is it?” he asked, but Lannie was already sprinting through the front door.
CHAPTER FOUR
New Orleans
“Archibald Grant” had a choice: to finish his speech or to react to the urgent message now coming across the face of his wristwatch.
This was no ordinary watch he wore, but then nothing about Mr. Grant was ordinary. As one of the RAND Corporation’s leading experts on international terrorism, he was in great demand, not only back at the home office in Santa Monica, California, but worldwide. RAND maintained divisions in Boston, Pittsburgh, Washington, D.C., Jackson, Mississippi; Cambridge, England; Brussels; and Doha, Qatar.
His attention from the message was distracted by the blonde in the front row. She was a reporter, one of the few the RAND Corporation allowed into policy addresses such as this. Most of the time, RAND hid its global activities behind its anonymous name, Research ANd Development.
This was a special occasion: a conference organized by RAND’s Gulf States Policy Institute, which had been formed post-Katrina to aid three of the most benighted states in the union, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. The topic of his lecture was: “Terrorist Opportunities in a Devastated Environment: Some Thoughts on Media Responsibility,” but the reporter seemed more interested in him than in the subject of his remarks. Even in his guise of “Mr. Grant,” he hated inquisitive people, and blonde network reporters were right up there with the worst of them.
It wasn’t that Grant was so good-looking: balding, over-weight, slightly buck-toothed, he was no woman’s idea of a prize. But he was brilliant, and a compelling speaker, which in his experience was more than enough to interest a certain class of women. Luckily for men, brains often counted more than looks when it came to the fair sex.
“…and so, ladies and gentlemen, let me conclude with this thought…” His mind raced, trying to finish his remarks and at the same time process the information he was reading surreptitiously. Silently, he cursed himself for taking this gig, for being so far away from Washington and New York at a time like this. Maybe it was just an early yellow flag, but in his experience the National Security Agency didn’t issue SCI alerts—Sensitive Compartmented Information—on a whim. And besides, these days, there were no yellow flags, only red ones. He’d have to wrap it up and leave as quickly as possible, without incurring suspicion. Especially from the blonde.
“The days of so-called ‘separation of church and state,’ whether we want to admit it, are over. A new media environment, brought on first by the emergence, and by the dominance, of the Internet, coupled with the severe economic downturn of the past 48 months, has finally brought the relationship of the press and the government into a new era of cooperation and, dare I suggest, symbiosis: no longer natural adversaries, but partners in the brave new world of the 21st century. Our shared land, our common patriotism, demands no less.
“America is unique among the world’s nations in more ways than simply the political, the military, or the economic. Three other countries—Russia, Canada, China—may be larger, territorially speaking, but none is subject to the kinds of climatological and ecological disruption. Blizzards, earthquakes, wildfires, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes; had civilization tried to arise here, rather than the Indus Valley, it surely would have perished in short order. Far from being a land of milk and honey, America has always demanded the survival of the fittest. Lest we forget, the ‘shining city on a hill’ was bought with the blood of patriots.”
There was a slight stir in the audience; nobody used the word “patriots” anymore, nor referenced Jefferson’s famous Tree of Liberty, however obliquely. What they usually forgot, of course, was Jefferson’s exact formulation in his 1787 letter to William Smith, written from Paris, of which Mr. Grant now reminded them:
“Or, to quote Jefferson directly, ‘the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’”
The buzz grew louder as he entered his peroration: “Against all odds, America defeated the world’s other superpower through a combination of willpower, tactical superiority, and a consummate knowledge of the battlefield—virtues we sorely lacked on September 11, 2001, and in its aftermath, and in many ways continue to lack. When the next terrorist attack comes—notice I said when, not if—our first line of defense will not be the government, or even the first responders, but will be the media. How the attack is framed, and explained, will determine in large part the will of this nation to fight back. In a sense, we were lucky on 9/11. The attack came so suddenly, and without warning, that the usual collection of nervous nellies, naysayers, National Public Radio eunuchs, and nabobs in the ‘loyal opposition’ took several months before they were able to regroup and begin the counterattack. But when the next blow comes, they will be ready, appeasement on their lips and terms of surrender already signed and sealed in their pockets. I just hope that we—the tip of the tip of the spear—will be ready, too.”
There was a smattering of weak applause, which is about what Mr. Grant had expected. He let it almost subside before finishing.
“Of the abilities of the men and women employed by our counterterrorism agencies I have no doubt. Nothing the media says or writes or broadcasts can or should or will affect them. Rather, I am thinking of the civilian population, the people who get their news from the networks and the cables and from what few newspapers and magazines anyone still takes seriously. I am thinking, in short, of ordinary, average Americans. People who once knew how to deal with extraordinary events and overcome them or endure them, secure in the knowledge that Der Wille zur Macht would see them through adversity. The very people whose will to fight has been eroded by half a century of guilt, defeatism, analysis, and Hollywood. For, when the time comes—and come it will—it is they who, more than anyone else, must once again summon the courage of their forebears and seize the day.”
He paused and looked out over the sea of faces. It was time to go. “Thank you for your kind attention.”
Through the perfunctory applause, a question: “So you’re advocating vigilantism?” It was the blonde. “And a follow-up—if so, then why do the American taxpayers spend billions of dollars each year on the military and the intelligence services? Are you saying that, in the end, all of our vaunted technology and martial prowess can’t guarantee our safety? And finally—”
“Would you kindly identify yourself, please, Miss?” Mr. Grant asked.
“Principessa Stanley. National-security correspondent, People’s News Network.”
There were a couple of titters in the audience from the Europeans. That was to be expected. The Americans were too ignorant and uneducated to get the operatic reference, while the Europeans got it at once. She had spent most of her life trying to live up to the implications of her name, to be as regal and beautiful and as cold as her namesake, the Princess Turandot. She turned briefly and flashed her famously telegenic smile: “My father was a big Puccini fan,” she explained.
“You understand, Ms. Stanley, that we are on Chatham House rules. Off the record, on deep background, however you care to phrase it. In any case, not for attribution.” He took a small sip of water to delay her answer, giving him time to glance down at his watch once more. The news had not gotten any better. Luckily, she was waiting for him just outside, and they would be at the airport in short order.
Principessa smiled her famous network smile again. A cable network smile, but still a network smile, and one that had, along with her pretty face and killer figure, taken her a long way from Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. If she played her cards right, pretty soon she’d move up from the mid-morning slot to the late-afternoon slot and after
