“And because those deaths are statistically within the range of possible deaths from influenza, a really bad influenza, there isn’t the same hatred of this bag of excrement that there would be if he poisoned the water supply of a small town, or blew up 80 airliners to reach 26,000 dead.” Joey was getting less objective and more agitated as he focused on the kid glove, politically correct, religiously sensitive handling of this mass murdering scumbag.
“So he gets the royal treatment, while his ‘comrades in alms’ don’t think twice about cutting off Daniel Pearl’s head. Makes me wanna go in there and introduce him to flesh-eating bacteria. Slow, flesh-eating bacteria.”
In a way, she stole Joey’s thunder and rage, and he took on the role of objective mentor. He looked at the woman agent, who appeared not much older than a teenager, and as American as apple pie.
“Whoa. Agent Burrell, we’re the good guys remember?”
“He just…”
Then Joey saw a flash of something he missed before, subtle and quickly dissolved, but there nonetheless. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
As she looked at him, Joey could see the two opposing forces waging battle in her head. The deep breath she then took was the surrender flag of one side. “He scares the bejesus out of me, sir.”
“You are in fear for your safety?”
“Not just me, although yes, me too, but he thinks… no, strike that, he knows, he’s getting out. He doesn’t have to play ball with me or give up any info. He just has to wait it out because one day he won’t be there.”
“He’s manacled, right?”
“24/7 and anchored at night and at meals.”
“Ten bucks!”
“What?”
“Go to the bank; get a roll of quarters…” What Joey then described was in no agent’s field manual ever printed by the FBI.
CHAPTER SIX
Makin’ Copies
In late December 1968, twenty-five people attended the traditional Christmas dinner in Kasiko’s apartment in Jackson Heights. Peter noticed a shelf above the fireplace where there were more than 40 finely etched and brilliantly colored eggs. All beautifully displayed on gold stands. Of the people there, many of the men were scientists. Peter actually recognized many of them from TV shows on Channel 13 and the Sunday morning shows that featured scientists who talked about everything Sputnik, Gemini, Teflon, and beyond. The men were very engaging; most spoke with thick foreign accents, but Peter was able to have deep discussions with most of them. They spoke of things that Peter had never heard of, Global Warming, Nanotechnology, Large Scale Integration, Cold Fusion, and Supercomputing. None of which at the time could be read about or was even mentioned in
Before “Saturday Night Live” began its reign, NBC Studios at 30 Rockefeller Plaza was deader than a doornail on a Saturday night. In fact, aside from master control and a few videotape guys, the news was the only department with even half a staff. After the torrent of activity getting the “Weekend Huntley Brinkley Report” on the air at 6:30 (it aired off tape in New York at 7:00 p.m.) things settled down to a constant drip of non-events. Every 30 minutes or so, Peter, often working alone on weekends, would make the rounds in the room and spike copy. Spiking was the process of distributing the five impact copies of teletype paper from each newswire machine to the various on-air talent, producers, writers, or directors whose names were above spikes running all the way around the room. During the day the spikes were cleaned every 15 minutes or so. But on weekends, only the news manager, domestic and international film desks, and a few local writers across the hall doing the “11th Hour New York” local news came to gather their copy. So once every thirty minutes was all it took to do a fine job keeping up with the slow moving stories.
Peter was surprised when Kasiko came through the door. With the exception of the Christmas party the other night, he had actually not seen him, in or out of the office for months, because during the school year, Peter only worked weekends.
Kasiko didn’t waste time with small talk. “Peter, you know some of the people at the party were very impressed with you. They agreed to ask you to join them as my assistant.”
“You mean the scientists?”
“Yes, they are doing some important work for the United Nations and I handle the security for the committee.”
“What’s the committee?”
“First you have to sign this and swear not to divulge the work that you may be called upon to do.”
“Sign what?”
“This it’s a non-disclosure agreement.”
Peter read the paper, then signed and dated it.
Kasiko knew this was more for effect since Peter was way under the age of consent, but he felt it would make the desired impression. “The first thing I need you to do is tonight, when no one is around, make five copies of this.” Kasiko handed Peter an envelope and dangled a key on a chain. “Here’s the key to my desk. Leave the copies in the bottom drawer and put the key under my phone.”
“Sure.” Peter held up the envelope. “What is this?”
“It’s just something we need five copies of, no questions asked. Can you do that?”
“Yes of course, tonight, later.”
“Thank you, and welcome to the committee.”
Kasiko took the envelope back, put it in the lower desk drawer, locked the desk, and handed Peter the key, adding, “Remember, when no one else is around.” Then he left.
The 11 o’clock net feed was the only story tonight. Other than that it was an unusually slow news night. That meant the 8-to-12 shift would be leaving early. The 12-to-8 shift would be light. Peter was working a double again so that he could make $37.50 a shift, times two, in one night during school months. That was a ton of money for a 14-year-old in the late ’60s.
By 11:30 p.m., Peter was the only one in the whole newsroom. The manager, domestic film desk, and exec producer of local news were down in Hurleys, the watering hole located on the 6th Avenue and 49th Street corner of the RCA building. So popular was Hurleys with the hard drinking men of journalism, that a special yellow phone was connected from under the manager’s desk to a phone in the table’s booth. In case of any emergency, Peter’s orders were clear: ring up the yellow phone. The execs had an elevator operator standing by and could teeter into the newsroom within 40 seconds of Peter’s call.
When the news manager left at 20 after 11, Peter checked on the “nightman” and saw he was in an office typing. The coast was now clear; this was the time. He unlocked the desk and retrieved the gray envelope with the blue interlocking NBC logo. Inside was an oak tag file folder, which contained something called a galley proof. It was pages of a book. It looked to Peter as if someone opened a book and placed it down flat on a Xerox, so that both adjoining pages could be read across. Peter took half the pages and set them in the document feeder. He then set the digital nixie tube display by turning a knob beneath each number. He turned the right-most knob five clicks until the number above read “005.” Maybe because he felt like a secret agent just then, he then turned it two more times just to see the 007 in thin, red gaseous numbers. Then, for some reason he didn’t understand, he set the display to 010 and pushed the sort button and then the start button. Papers started slotting into the 10 sort bins as the machine clunked and ca-chunked along. When the first half of the original had passed through, he tapped down and smoothed the last half and placed it in the feeder. Soon he had 10 copies of something called,
