Empire

Reuben. “This is a really disturbing conversation.”

“If they don’t think it will help them, there’s no reason for them to kill you. Tell it all to The Post. Name all the names you can.” Babe grinned. “I’m in p.r., and I’ll tell you what I’d tell Brad Pitt and Russell Crowe—don’t wait for them to tell the story on you, you tell it on them first.”

“They’re not your clients,” said Arty.

“I didn’t say they were,” said Babe. “Rube’s nowhere near as pretty as they are. Though I will say he’s almost as manly.”

Which is why, at eleven o’clock at night, Reuben found himself in a conference room at The Washington Post, with his whole team around him, as he and Cole sat there to be photographed and questioned by the reporters and editors working on the assassination story.

“We’re not answering questions for the first while,” said Reuben. “I’m just going to tell you exactly what happened, including some classified stuff whose classification got blown all to hell. But I’m getting set up, and I at least want my story out there to compete with the lies that are going to be told about me.”

They didn’t like it that he wanted to be in control of the interview.

“Just listen to what I have to say and then decide whether it was worth getting out of bed for.”

The lead reporter on the story was Leighton Fuller. He was their top political reporter, and he also had his own weekly column in which he had already killed every idea the President had ever had. Though he never admitted they actually rose to the level of being called ideas.

“I don’t see what this is about,” Leighton said. “You’re a hero, you tried to save the President. Who’s trying to set you up?”

“Okay, I’ll pretend I’m answering your question,” said Reuben. Then, with Cole affirming or correcting or supplementing him all the way, he told about the day’s events. Including how on his own Reuben would never have seen the signs of the submersibles.

And at the end, Reuben explained about the manuscript of his plan for assassinating the President. “If they find my fingerprints on the copy the terrorists worked from then you’ll know something important.”

“What will we know?” asked Leighton.

“I never touched the final report with my own hands. The division secretary delivered it electronically to the printing office and they printed it and bound it and she delivered it around. I wasn’t making a point of not touching it, I just wasn’t in the country when I finished it and emailed it to DeeNee. If my fingerprints are on it, then it’s a rough draft. One of the ones I hand-carried to people for comment.”

“Which people?”

“The division secretary is putting together the list.”

“Can I have it?”

“No. I’ll turn it over to the FBI. But I want you to know it exists in case it gets ignored there.”

“You do realize how paranoid you sound,” said Leighton.

“Yes, sir,” said Reuben. “And if they never do any of this stuff I’m anticipating, then I’ll have to agree with you. But which of you would have been paranoid enough to think the President and Vice President might be killed within minutes of each other—that the President could have been blown up right through a West Wing window?”

“I’ll give you this,” said Leighton. “You two are the only people who even tried to stop this assassination when there was still time to have a chance to stop it. I didn’t like this President, but I didn’t want him dead. He was the President. So you’ve earned a fair hearing on your completely wacko account. Does everybody understand that?” Leighton looked at his editor. “I don’t want us to screw around with the headline or the captions to paint this guy as guilty.” He turned back to Reuben and Cole. “Unless we get evidence confirming that you really did collaborate with terrorists.”

“Of course you’ll get evidence like that,” said Cole. “It’s being planted even as we speak.”

“Evidence that satisfies me,” said Leighton. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Major Malich, and you’ve proven you’ve got brains and guts. The way you tell it, this is all part of a larger plan. And if you’re right, do you know what that smells like to me?”

They didn’t.

“It smells like war. Somebody wants America’s military to be humiliated and demoralized before the war.”

“Who?” asked one of the other reporters. “Who’s going to dare to attack us?”

“I guess we’ll find out when they’re through crucifying Major Malich,” said Leighton.

One of the editors spoke up. “Leighton, it looks to me like these guys are just trying to use us to spin the story.”

“Everybody tries to use us to spin the story,” said Leighton contemptuously. “And when we like them or their cause, we follow their spin. I don’t know if I like these guys. But I also don’t know but what they’re telling the truth. So my story is going to report their claims neutrally. Then we’ll see who jumps on it.”

“Or on us,” said the editor. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to let them use us this way.”

“That’s honest enough,” said Reuben, getting up. The other soldiers also rose to their feet. “We’ll go to the Washington Times, then, and hope the truth seeps out somehow.”

Several of the reporters laughed nervously. Leighton grinned. “You’re right—telling the Times isn’t a leak, it’s seepage.”

“Thanks for coming back to the office so late at night,” said Reuben. “Now I’ve got to go wake up the Times.”

The editor looked annoyed. “We want the exclusive. That’s what you promised us.”

“We wanted a fair hearing,” said Reuben. “You’re already planning to spin it against me.” He headed for the door.

Load said, in Farsi, “Can’t we bruise them a little bit, as long as we’ve got them all in the same room?” Reuben’s team laughed.

Reuben had to walk past Leighton to get to the door. Leighton winked at him. “You watch,” he said. “You’ll have your fair hearing.”

Reuben paused and studied Leighton’s face. He didn’t know this man. Did the popularity of his column give him so much power at the paper that he could override his editor? Or did he simply trust in his powers of persuasion? Or… was he lying right now, to keep Reuben from going to the Times?

Reuben made his guess, and bet his future on it. When he and Cole and the rest of the team got back to their cars, he told Mingo the combination to the keypad on the door of his car back in the Res-ton Town Center parking garage. “The keys are above the visor,” he said. “I need to take your SUV, if you don’t mind my borrowing it.”

“I made some modifications,” Mingo answered. It took him only a few minutes to show Reuben where the weapons and ammunition were hidden.

“I hope I don’t need this,” said Reuben. “I’ll surrender before I shoot at Americans.”

“So you’re not going to the Times?” said Cole.

“I’m betting on Leighton,” said Reuben. “But in the long run, we know it’s going to go against me. Because they’ll have evidence. And they’ll have some Jack Ruby wannabe waiting for me.”

“That’s why I’m coming with you,” said Cole.

“Then we really will look like a conspiracy.”

“We’re going to look like one anyway,” said Cole. He glanced around at the other guys. “Heck, we are a conspiracy. We’re plotting to save your life and your name.”

“I hope what we’re doing,” said Reuben, “is working to find out who killed the President and prevent them from hurting America any worse than they already have.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Cole as he got into the passenger seat of Mingo’s SUV. “That too.”

“Help me pull him out of there,” said Reuben.

“No way,” said Mingo. “He’s Special Ops.”

“He’s a bad dude,” said Cat.

“He might hurt me,” said Benny.

Reuben was annoyed. “Why should two careers go down the toilet on this?”

“He’s assigned to you by the Pentagon,” said Drew. “It makes sense for him to stay with you.”

“And we need him,” said Babe, “to tell us the truth about whatever danger you might get into. Because we