And there’s something about the way he said it. An implication. Ben turned.
“What?” he said. But the man was already closing his door. Then the truck pulled away. Was that a threat of some kind? A warning? Or was he being paranoid? Ben watched the truck roll back to the hangar until its taillights were just two red spots in the fog.
“Babe?” said Sarah.
Ben exhaled loudly, trying to shake it off.
“Yeah,” he said.
Too Big to Jail. That’s what Barney had said. It was just a ploy. The government was trying to make an example, but when it came down to it—the secrets he had, the implications to the financial markets—he had to believe that Barney was right. That this thing would settle quietly for a few million dollars. The truth was, he’d prepared for this day, planned for it. He’d have been an idiot not to, and if there was one thing Ben Kipling wasn’t it was an idiot. He had insulated himself financially, hiding funds—not everything, of course, but a couple of million. There was a litigator on retainer. Yes, this was the worst-case scenario, but it was a scenario they had built a fortress to handle.
Let them come, he thought, surrendering himself to fate, then he squeezed Sarah’s hand, breathing again, and walked her to the plane.
2.
Chapter 18
Cunningham
It’s never been a secret that Bill Cunningham has problems with authority. In some ways that’s his brand, the fire-breathing malcontent, and he’s translated it into a ten-million-dollar-a-year contract with ALC. But in the same way a man’s nose and ears become exaggerated as he ages, so do the psychological issues that define him. We all become caricatures of ourselves, if we live long enough. And so over the last few years, as his power grew, so too did Bill’s fuck you and the horse you rode in on attitude. Until now, he’s been like some blood-drinking Roman caesar who believes deep down he may be a god.
Ultimately, this is why he’s still on the air, after all the bullshit corporate crybabying over his alleged “phone hacking.” Though, if he’s being honest (which he isn’t), he’d have to admit that David’s death had a lot to do with it. A grief response and power vacuum in a moment of crisis that Bill was able to exploit by delivering what he calls “leadership,” but was really a kind of moral bullying.
“You’re gonna—” he said, “let me get this straight, you’re gonna can me in a moment of all-out war.”
“Bill,” said Don Liebling, “don’t you do that.”
“No, I want—you need to say it on the record—so when I sue your asses for a billion dollars I can be specific on the stand while I’m jerking off into some caviar.”
Don stares at him.
“Jesus. David’s dead. His wife is dead. His—”
He gets quiet for a moment, overcome by the immensity of it.
“His goddamn daughter. And you’re—I can’t even say it out loud.”
“Exactly,” said Bill, “you can’t. But I can. That’s what I do. I say things out loud. I ask the questions no one else is willing to—and millions of people watch this channel because of that. People who are gonna run to CNN if they turn on our coverage of the death of our own fucking boss and see some second-string automaton with Fisher-Price snap-on hair reading his opinions off a teleprompter. David and his wife and daughter—who, I held her at her fucking baptism—are lying somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic with Ben Kipling—who I’m hearing was about to be indicted—and everybody’s using the word accident like nobody on earth had reason to want these people dead, except then why did the man travel in a bulletproof limousine and his office windows could take a hit from a goddamn bazooka?”
Don looks over at Franken, Bill’s lawyer, already knowing that in the war between common sense and marketing genius, marketing is going to win out. Franken smiles.
Gotcha.
And that’s how it came to pass that Bill Cunningham was back on the air Monday morning, three hours after news of the crash broke.
He sat before the cameras, his hair unbrushed, in shirtsleeves, his tie askew, looking for all intents and purposes like a man felled by grief. And yet, when he spoke, his voice was strong.
“Let me be clear,” he said. “This organization—this planet—has lost a great man. A friend and leader. I wouldn’t be sitting in front of you right now—”
He paused, collected himself.
“—I’d still be throwing weather in Oklahoma, if David Bateman hadn’t seen potential where no one else could. We built this network together. I was his best man when he married Maggie. I am—I was—godfather to his daughter, Rachel. And that is why I feel it is my responsibility to see that his murder is solved, and that the killer or killers are brought to justice.”