Chapter 4: The press objective

 

“When is that fucking bitch going to learn about cyber security?” the publisher of the most prominent newspaper inside the Beltway snarled, lacking the grim old-school news look publishers of the past had, but not the attitude. “We finally get the fucking president on the ropes, and this is the thanks we get from the Democrats.”

“It’s not the Democrats,” Zeber said, sounding younger than really was, looking very much like the intern he’d been when he first arrived at the newspaper a decade earlier, part of that next generation of journalists popped out the academic world, a suit and tie generation of journalists who studied Watergate the way Christians did the Bible, aching for their chance to bring down a government – and to Zeber’s delight – getting that chance thanks to a very bitter Democratic Party and their still bitter associates scattered through the current government, full of whispers and innuendoes and a passion to humiliate the current president. “It’s the Senator’s staff. They document everything for her. She assumed she was going to be president, and this was going to be part of her legacy.”

“I’m getting very sick of this legacy crap,” the publisher said, glaring across his cluttered desk. “We got too much of that with the last president, always patting himself on the back, putting on his kind face for the public so that everybody would love him, when behind the scenes he was among the most ruthless presidents ever. Now this.”

“What exactly do your sources tell you?”

“That there was a break in at the Senator’s former campaign headquarters and a fire. Two bodies were found in the cinders – the police believe to be the guards. They were each shot in the head, suggesting a professional execution.”

“Fuck!” the publisher howled. “How the hell does she expect me to keep this out of our news feed?”

 “It gets worse,” Zeber said.

“What do you mean?”

“The police believe this may be tied to the murder of Bernie Sanders worker back during the election.”

“What?”

“Same or similar weapon,” Zeber said. “Both appear to be the result of a professional hit. The local police have requested information from the first murder be sent to New York, suggesting that this may pan out to become a much wider investigation.”

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the publisher said, spitting out each word like a bullet. “Just when we got that fucker on the ropes with the Russians.”

Then, he paused, stared over at Zeber, a slow smile creeping across his lower lip.

“Do you think we can play this out as a Russian hit?” he asked.

Zeber shrugged.

“We can try. All the other Russian stuff seems to have worked to our advantage.”

“Get on it,” the publisher said, reaching for the phone on his desk, and then speaking into it, “Sally, get me the police commissioner in New York City.”