Soft Targets

'And newsmen have been known to modify their ethics,' Charlie George responded. 'If this amounts to censorship, Maury, it'll be entirely self-imposed. Nothing very new in that.'

'I'm sure this sounds like an odd stance for me to take,' Everett smiled sadly, 'but I tend to balk at social control. Hell, Rhone, you've studied Schramm and his apostles.'

'Funny you should mention that; I remember something you don^'t, apparently. Most media philosophers claim that, between simple-minded total liberty to slander and hard-nosed total control over the message, there's something we always move toward when we confront a common enemy. It's called Social Responsibility Theory. We used it to advantage in 1917 and 1942. It's time we used it again.'

That the issue would arise in the Commission seemed certain. It was equally certain that Everett must select a principle to override others sooner or later. He had a vivid flash of recollec­tion: a willowy girl with gooseflesh and a baton, bravely smiling after an hour of parading, ten seconds before her obliteration. 'I don't like it,' he said slowly, measuring his words, 'but I don't like wars on children either. You make God-damned sure this social responsibility doesn't go beyond the terrorism thing.' His promise of support, and of its limitation, were implicit.

'I don't like it either,' D'Este spat. 'I seem to be part of a media conspiracy I never asked for. Charlie, you didn't ask me here just for graphics. What, then?'

'Commitment,' Charlie said evenly.

'I'm working CBS specials! How I'm ex­pected to collar newsmen, writers, producers, who knows who else, is beyond me; regular programming is out of my line.'

'Nothing in television is out of your line,' Rhone Althouse began, laying stress on each word. As he proceeded, Everett noted the up-swing in tempo, the appeal to D'Este's vanity, the loaded phrases, and he was glad Althouse did not write speeches for politicians. 'You're independent, Dahl; you work for all the nets, you know everybody in key committees all over the Industry, and when you lift an idea you pick a winner.

'Charlie can sweet-talk NBN news into using your logo when there's a place for it—we think—while he develops his satire. You know the old dictum in showbiz; if it succeeds, beat it to death. I'll start working the same shtick in ABC comedy Christ, I'm doing three shows!—and I can drop the hint that this lovely logo is public domain. With any luck, the idea can sweep NBN and ABC both. News, commen­tary, comedy.^'

Althouse watched D'Este gnawing a thumbnail, fixed him with a hard stare. 'And you, Dahl? Will CBS keep out of the fun for some asinine inscrutable reason? Or will one of its most active—' he paused, the word homosexu­als hanging inaudibly in the air like an echo without an antecedent, '—free spirits, cham­pion the idea from the inside? That's really the only question, Dahl. Not whether you can do it, but whether you will.'

Intending support, Everett put in, 'It'll take guts, in a milieu that hasn't shown many,' and immediately wished he hadn't.

'No one corporation owns me, Mr. E,' D'Este flung the words like ice cubes. 'I don't have to stroke your armor.'

'That's not what I meant. None of you have considered asking the next question,' Everett replied.

Charlie George misunderstood, too. 'Ask yourself if it's worth some trouble to keep the Industry from being a flack for maniacs, Dahl. If we don't start soon, ask yourself if you'd like to see the FCC license networks themselves when Congress considers tighter government con­trol.'

An even longer silence. 'Madness,' D'Este said at last, 'but in this crazy business—I have misgivings, but I'll go along.' He folded his arms in challenge and stared back at Everett. 'Licens­ing? Is that the sword you were brandishing over us, the next question you meant?'

Everett took a long pull at his beer, then set it down. His smile was bleak. 'That never crossed my mind, I think Charlie overstated. Here's what I meant: if this idea takes hold, the idea men could be spotlighted, and that means to people like Hakim Arif. I had a brush with their rhetoric, and they weren't even after me. See what it bought me.' He peeled his shirt up to reveal the tape that bound the bandage to his right side. Angry stripes, the paths of debris in human flesh, marked his belly and pectorals beyond the tape.

He hauled the fabric down, regarded the so­bered media men. 'We have a lot of questions to thrash out, but none of you can afford to ignore the next one: if you take them all on—Palestinians, IRA, Chileans, Japanese extremists —what are the chances they'll come after you personally?'

For once, he noted with satisfaction, Rhone Althouse sat unprepared, openmouthed. Preparation would not be simple. Everett made a mental note to talk again with Dave Engels. Surely Engels could recommend someone as a bodyguard. Not a woman; certainly not anyone like Gina Vercours...

MONDAY, 10 NOVEMBER, 1980:

Hakim's feet were light on the steps as he hurried from the bank. The sheer weight of bank notes in his briefcase tugged at his left arm but failed to slow his stride. Fourteen minutes to rendezvous; plenty of time unless he were fol­lowed. His quick pace was perfectly normal in metropolitan New York City. He checked his timing again before entering the cafeteria. No one followed or seemed to loiter outside the place. He bought a chocolate bar to tempt, but not to entertain, his empty stomach. Slipping the candy into a pocket of his silk shirt away from the newly extended armpit holster, he thought of the pleasures of self-denial. He salivated for the chocolate. Later he would watch Talith eat it. He surveyed the cafeteria's glass front through re­flective sunglasses. Twelve minutes; time to burn. He left by a different exit, moving unobtru­sively down the street.

It was sheerest luck that the antique store was placed just so, and boasted a mirror angled just so. Hakim spotted the glance from a stroller to the unmarked green Camaro, both moving behind him and in his direction. The stroller drifted into another shop. A tall sandy-haired man emerged from the Camaro, and in a hurry. Hakim's body braced for action.

He continued his brisk pace. Instead of converging on him they had exchanged tails, which meant he was expected to lead them—whoever they were. They did not move like divinity stu­dents. Federals, probably, judging from the cut of their suits. He tested the notion of the Jewish Defense League, a distinct danger in Manhattan, and felt perspiration leap at his scalp. But their methods were usually more direct, and the tail he had picked up must have mooched around the bank for days. And that meant inefficiency, which implied government. He cursed the over-coat that impeded his legs in November cold, then saw the third-rate hotel.

The sandy-haired man entered the lobby as Hakim was leaving the stair onto the filthy mez­zanine and wasted seconds on two other pas-sages; seconds that saved him. Hakim found the fire exit, burst the door seal, and slithered past the metal grating to drop into the alley. He sprinted for the street, adjusted his breathing again as he slowed to a walk, then turned another corner and risked a peek over his shoul­der. The Camaro was following with its lone driver.

Hakim had nine minutes and needed seven. He wanted that rendezvous, not relishing the alternative risks of public transportation to Long Island. Nearing the next corner he noted the lack of pedestrians and made his decision. He broke into a run, turned sharply, ran a few steps, then turned back and melted into a doorway. He did not want the driver to pursue him on foot and knew this would be the next option.

A small girl sat on the stair in his doorway at Hakim's eye level, licking fingers sticky with candy, watching silent and serious as he fum­bled in his coat. The silencer slowed his draw. He flashed the little girl a smile and a wink. The Camaro squalled around the corner. Hakim gauged his move to coincide with commitment to the turn, made five leaping paces, and fired as many times. The parabellum rounds pierced glass, cloth, flesh, bone, upholstery, and body panels in that order, each round making no more noise than a great book suddenly closed.

The Camaro's inertia carried it into a forlornly stripped foreign sedan. Hakim held the sidearm in his coat and retraced his steps, winking again at the little girl just before he shot her. Then he reseated the pistol, careful to keep the hot si­lencer muzzle away from the expensive shirt.

Seven minutes later Hakim hurried up another alley, squirmed into a delivery van, and nodded at the sturdy Guerrero who lazed behind the wheel in coveralls as the engine idled.

The van's engine was mounted between front seats with an upholstered cover. Bernal Guerrero had built an extension toward the rear just long enough to accommodate a small Iraqi; the makeshift upholstery would pass casual inspec­tion. Kneeling with the extension cover up, re­luctant to relinquish control to the latino, Hakim urged caution. 'Drive south first; I was fol­lowed.' He did not elaborate.

For a time, Guerrero attended strictly to driv­ing as Hakim directed him to the bridge approach. Once over the East River, in heavy traf­fic, Hakim began to relax but did not stir from his position. Guerrero adjusted an inside rearview. 'The funds were on hand, then.'