outburst of applause that included even Filson. Feldman bowed, extended his arms toward Hunter and deferred to his associate, who accepted the praise with a gratified grin.
Bollinger, his anger completely quashed, looked as relieved as he did pleased. “Breck,” he said, exhaling deeply, smiling broadly, “WNN has been on my butt all day for details on our follow-up, and all I could do was promise them ‘something big.’ Thank God you delivered, you asshole.” He had obviously known Hunter had been ignoring his calls.
“Now,” the bureau chief said, rubbing the palms of his hands together briskly, “let's see if we can find that boy!”
23
Bethlehem, Israel 7:17 A.M., Sunday, January 2, 2000
In a cafe early the next morning, Hunter and Feldman didn't even touch their breakfasts. They were absorbed with sections of today's and yesterday's London
In an article from the bottom half of yesterday's front page was a story entitled: “False Alarm Breeds Doomsday Panic,” with the subhead: “Jerusalem Earthquake Heralds New Millennium.”
In today's paper, however, the story graduated to top front page: “World Jolted by Reports of New Messiah!” It was accompanied by lengthy accounts of religious unrest and sidebars detailing the strange developments in Israel and around the globe. Feldman was relieved to find that at least no major rioting or violence had reerupted.
Virtually the entire main news section was devoted to the story. Religious organizations everywhere were in a state of confusion. Official responses differed widely, from outright denunciation by the Catholic College of Cardinals in Rome, to complete embracing by such denominations as the Seventh Day Adventists and Mormons. Most religious leaderships, like the Jewish Rabbinical Council, took a wait-and-see approach.
An interesting anecdote, Feldman noted, was a report of a mild tremor in Rome with minor damage to a priceless Michelangelo fresco in the Sistine Chapel, and a fracture in the main altar stone of St. Peter's Basilica. There had been, however, no such “supernatural” occurrences reported in Salt Lake City.
Another small notice caught his eye and he called Hunter's attention to it. Joshua Milbourne, spiritual head of the Jehovah's Witnesses, who had been viewing the WNN Millennium Eve program from his hospital bed, had died that night of a massive heart attack. Death occurred, the article said, at one minute past midnight Mideast time as Milbourne witnessed the beginning of the climactic earthquake.
“Well,” Hunter observed dryly, “I guess you can say he made it to the Second Coming and fulfilled the old prophecy. That ought to keep the Jehovah's Witnesses in business a while longer!”
As Hunter and Feldman arrived at the morning staff meeting held outside the WNN RV, they made the nodding acquaintance of a familiar-looking executive in an expensive European suit and tie, standing at Bollinger's side. Bollinger, oblivious to their arrival, continued his monologue to the crew. But the new visitor detached himself and approached them around the edge of the gathering.
Feldman finally recognized who this was, gripping the firm hand of Nigel Sullivan, WNN's European bureau chief. Though they'd never met, Feldman knew and respected the man largely responsible for WNN's millenarian coverage and Feldman's current position. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.”
Sullivan smiled warmly and also shook Hunter's hand. He motioned the sleepy-looking newsmen to the last row of chairs. “Please, no need to be formal with me. I'm Nigel to you and to everyone else, as well,” he said with the aristocratic accent of an English nobleman. But there was no stuffiness or distance to it. “I'm delighted to finally meet you lads. As I've been telling Arnie and your associates, you've done an outstanding job here. Simply outstanding.”
‘Thank you, sir,” they both responded, neither quite able to drop the formality yet.
“Have you heard how the world's responding to last night's newscast?” Sullivan asked.
“Just what we've read in the morning papers,” Feldman answered.
Sullivan sat back in his chair and looked them squarely in the eyes. “For the last two nights, I'm pleased to tell you, WNN, with your team's outstanding contribution, has dominated world news ratings beyond anything ever achieved. A seventy-one percent share! And that's global, gentlemen. A seventy-one percent share! Not only un- precedented, virtually inconceivable!”
Feldman and Hunter looked at each other in disbelief, and then broke out in wide grins.
“This has happened so quickly, and become so large,” Sullivan continued, “it's caught everyone quite by surprise. At this time, no other network is even within shouting distance of us. But believe me, gentlemen, after the last two nights, every one of them is mounting a major thrust to catch up.”
That much was obvious. From where they sat they could see as many as twelve competing network vehicles queued up around the quadrangle where there had been none ten hours ago. A number of news helicopters, Sullivan's among them, rested in a pasture nearby.
“Jon.” Sullivan turned to Feldman and placed a hand on the newsman's shoulder. “I understand you've accepted a new position back in the United States. And while I realize it may be too late, I'd like to persuade you to reconsider. I'm prepared to offer you a new contract with an open term, quadrupling whatever compensation package you've been afforded.” He turned to Hunter. “And I'll be extending the same provisions to your current contract as well, Breck.”
The two reporters looked at each other and blinked.
“We want to expand our coverage of this development,” Sullivan explained, “yet we wish to preserve the unique chemistry and style that your team has created here. We'll put several additional teams at your disposal for developing the lead story on the boy Messiah. And, we're turning the Jerusalem office into a regional news center, expanding operations into three additional wings of office space and conference rooms. I'm here to see that you gentlemen get what you need-everything you need. It's one bloody big story, lads. Handled properly, it could well be the story of the century. The millennium!”
Twenty feet beyond them, Bollinger had just been delivering commendations to his troops and now called over to Nigel Sullivan to address everyone.
Sullivan rose and the two journalists followed suit. “We'll have lunch together today, if you're available, gentlemen, and we'll continue our discussion then?”
They nodded, thanked him, and he strode to the front of the meeting area to apply his congratulations and encouragement to the rest of the crew. Turning toward each other, Feldman and Hunter were mirror reflections of restrained enthusiasm.
“Holy shit, Feldman!” Hunter whispered.
“Holy shit, Hunter!” Feldman whispered back.
It was finally dawning on Feldman the potential measure of his circumstances. He'd stumbled into a world- class opportunity. A place where Pulitzers and legends were made. A place that generated books and speaking engagements and professorships with honorary degrees at hallowed Ivy League colleges. This was heady stuff. There was simply no way he could refuse this break, despite the embarrassment of having to renege on a plum position he'd fought so hard to win.
And yet, while he decided to accept Sullivan's generous offer, in the few seconds it took for all these grand permutations to ricochet through his mind, from somewhere Feldman found the foresight to focus on the larger picture. Whatever his good fortunes, he knew he must not lose sight of his need to
Feldman was yanked from his reflections by a tug at his shirt sleeve. A flushed and elated Cissy McFarland had stolen up on the two reporters from behind.
“I'm glad I caught you bozos before you had a chance to slink off,” she deadpanned. “Guess what?” She pulled a pink telephone slip from inside the neck of her shirt and waved it in their faces.
“Your hooters have a message for us?’ Hunter ventured.
