< previous page page_185 next page >

Page 185
Morgan asked grimly, "Was he alone?"
"Ask me, Colonel Fucking Morgan," Ryerson said defiantly. "Yes, I'm alone. Doing my job."
"Ah, shut up." Peters twisted his arm.
Morgan said, "Let him go, Ave." To Ryerson he asked, "Who told you where we were?"
"Go to hell, Morgan."
"Who is he, Morgan?" Anna asked again, anxiously.
"He used to call himself a newspaperman," Morgan said coldly. "In actual fact, he's a lying son of a bitch. He lost his job on his paper when he called the President's press secretary, pretending to be a member of Hezbollah, saying he had hostages, and was ready to strike a deal. But he insisted on speaking to the President personally, capture the Head of State discussing a deal with a terrorist, with the whole conversation on tape. An absolute hoax. He'd made a deal with one of those tell-all television programs for lots of dough. Classy, Ryerson. Very classy."
"Why is he here?" Anna's anxiety was heightened.
Morgan said, "Ave, we'll have to take him with us." He turned to Ryerson. "This is either the luckiest night of your life or your last."
Avery Peters said in a low voice, "Kidnapping a member of the Washington press corps is big trouble. Your boss will go ballistic."
"That's the least of it. I've got to tell him that he has a gusher somewhere in the NSC." Or something even worse, Morgan thought. Much worse.

 
< previous page page_185 next page >