Banquo's Ghosts (37 page)

Johnson woke up in plenty of time for Jo von Hildebrand’s news conference. He had been especially careful around Jo von H since he had gotten back. He said all the same sort of things politically that he always had, but with more calculation than ever, and it wouldn’t surprise him if she noticed. People liked to scoff behind her back that she was a mere social climber posing as a publisher-intellectual. He always thought in reply when he heard these comments, “Well, if you’re so much smarter, why is she Jo von H, and you’re not?”

Since his return she’d really laid on the pressure for him to write about the Iran business. She wanted a massive piece as the seed for a
book,
I Know Why They Hate Us: Guest of Iran, American Hostage
, or something in that vein. He claimed it was too painful to write at the moment, that he needed to spend more time with Giselle, that he was blocked—anything to hold her off, and she did the courtesy of believing him, for the time being. He knew eventually she would sit him down and dictate the piece, if that’s what it took: visions of cable appearances, newspaper coverage, and blog rantings dancing in her head.

So by way of placating her, he resolved to go to the presser and do his best to channel Jo von H, to ask the questions she would most want to hear. Though Yasmine Farouk and Dr. Pahlevi Yahdzi were the last people on earth he wanted to see. Dutifully, he packed his mini-digital tape recorder, his note pad, and a few Uniball pens, blue.

Once again he met Neville Poore, columnist for the
Times
, in Josephine von Hildebrand’s elevator on the way up. This time, the man wasn’t chatty as he’d been on the night of the party those years ago. In a foul mood. Clearly, the last thing he wanted was some gaseous Metropolitan light opera—or even worse—breaking news at Jo von H’s press conference preempting his column topic for tomorrow. A planned hit piece on the American flag pin: “the McCarthyism of America’s lapels, disgracing the country’s jackets with a simulacrum of patriotism.”

He pouted at Johnson with a mixture of jealousy, repellence, admiration, and respect. Wondering how a notorious drunken putz like Peter rated an Iranian kidnapping, a wild escape, and a mysterious repatriation, while he, Neville Poore,
New York Times
editorial-page columnist, was still just feeding his own publisher a laundry list of cherry-picked quotes and facts for his next clip-job bestseller. Now a cute Iranian physicist pops up as VIP du jour, and dammit Peter even
knew
her from back when. Life was so unfair.

“You’re looking well, Peter.”

And Johnson nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t know how he’d react seeing Yasmine and Yahdzi, those frauds so thoroughgoing they made him seem like Mr. Transparency. The elevator
cage doors opened, and they both walked down that long, endless hallway again, the sounds from the large oval foyer with those chalky voices fluttering back to meet them.

The grand foyer was packed shoulder to shoulder with the ducklings of the media summoned to bear witness. ABC, CBS, NBC, the major and even minor wire services were all represented at this cattle call. As was every newspaper in New York, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Miami. Neville Poore’s face dropped like a stone. “Oh, Gawd . . .” And Johnson nodded in appreciation of his disdain at the sheer fuss over it all.

One consolation, though. In the press of the crowd, Johnson himself wouldn’t stand out. But then he noticed the best-coiffed hair a
man’s
money could buy: $187 (including tips) at John Frieda Salon, the gorgeous locks visible over the shoulder of a burly cameraman. Was it? Could it be? Johnson moved a step to his right to get a different angle, and sure enough—Anton. So Frenchie banker’s been invited to the presser too? Johnson couldn’t possibly get over to him with the crush of people and mentally put it in his WTF file until the show was over.

A battery of microphones attached to the official podium of
The Crusader
stood near one curved wall, the cables snaking off to a general Wi-Fi box on the floor. Josephine von Hildebrand only pulled out The Big Podium on the most important occasions. The magazine didn’t boast a logo, just the name in Georgia font large enough to read across the room.

The Crusader

 

Planting the magazine’s imprimatur like Excalibur, the sword in the stone over the whole proceedings for everyone to see.

At a silent signal, a pocket door near the battery of microphones opened, and Jo von H emerged, brimming with gravity and suppressed enthusiasm. Behind her followed Dr. Yasmine Farouk, PhD, of the Tehran Polytechnic Institute. And following her dutifully came Dr. Ramses Pahlevi Yahdzi of the University of Isfahan. He looked just the same as the day Johnson walked into his office in the basement of the Gonabad facility, only dressed more neatly.

The questions from the hysterical press ran the gamut from pointless to criminally stupid. As Josephine knew all the gathered ducklings, she picked and chose who got to make fools of themselves, telling the crowd in a schoolmarm’s voice, “Let’s keep things simple, ladies and gentlemen—no two- and three-part questions, all right?”

So naturally the first question asked by the reporter from
Le Monde
began with the words, “One question and a follow-up, Monsieur Doktaire Yahdzi—” Johnson caught Neville Poore rolling his eyes in contempt. What didn’t that little French
canard
understand about no
two-parters
?

The question went something like this: “In your experience with international inspecting bodies have you ever had the opportunity to raise the question about nuclear inspections of United States facilities or Israeli facilities? And if so, when and with whom both in Washington and Jerusalem?” Obviously the fellow was searching for the headline: Iranian Physicist Blocked from Evidence of Planned Rogue Israeli Preemptive Nuclear Strike.

Dr. Ramses Pahlevi Yahdzi of the University of Isfahan cocked his head as though trying to listen very hard and dissect the meaning of the words aimed at him. He did it with an attitude of immense patience and amusement, as if wondering what manner of creature was clucking at him. Finally answering with a thick accent Johnson never heard before and the halting speech of a man unaccustomed to speaking English. A masterly performance.

“Yes, I—um—yes. Jews refuse inspections. Always do.” Then bowing his head in Yasmine’s direction, where she spoke sotto voce into his tilted ear. Him nodding sagely as she explained some detail. Then finally addressing the reporter from
Le Monde
:

“We ask repeatedly. First seven years ago, then three times a year for every year.” Then speaking with some inspiration, “Iran never give up trying to find truth from United States and Zionists.”

And on it went. One stupid question after another. And Yahdzi making a dumb show for a gullible press.

Finally it was Johnson’s turn to join the charade. He raised his hand, Uniball pen between first and second fingers. Josephine recognized him immediately. “Peter, please.”

Neither Yasmine nor Yahdzi acknowledged Johnson’s extraordinary past with them. They stared blankly and receptively waited for Johnson to speak. After all, why bother acknowledging what never occurred? The only accusations came from the execrable Sheik Kutmar on NITV, National Iranian Television, that one time. Purposely vague. Later, the usual suspects and guilty powers Johnson named were all alphabet soup, CIA-FBI-NSA and so forth. But not Iranian. No harm, no foul.

“Dr. Farouk,” he said to Yasmine. And here the smarm in Johnson slithered up like an old friend. Yasmine’s eyes opened wide in total innocence as she listened intently. “The last time we talked”—a knowing twitter went through the crowd of reporters, thinking of Johnson’s Iranian adventure—“you spoke movingly of how your country’s development had been held back for so long by the West, and that now, finally, the Islamic Republic is coming into its own. What do you say to those who would stop it?”

Without missing a beat, Yasmine said, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Johnson. And I’m gratified your treatment by the United States government upon your return from the Middle East was less harsh than those now being held as illegal prisoners in the military prisons of your country . . . ”

“You’re not the only one!” Johnson interjected, provoking a gale of laughter as approving faces turned his way from around the room.

But Yasmine’s didn’t approve. She didn’t appreciate being interrupted. In fact, she would probably only be truly happy if she could make him piss razors again.

She feigned a smile and continued, “We are a sovereign nation. One that represents the world’s greatest civilization, although one that has been beset by Western colonialism and arrogance for too long. We are strong now and getting stronger, so strong that you will never be able to keep us from taking our place in the sun. So what I say is, we are the rising tide, and how do you say? ‘Time and tide wait for no man’? Or in American: Get over it.”

Charmed chuckles from the reporters.

Johnson nodded his head, gravely taking down everything the woman said. Then raising his hand: “And if I may ask the second half of my one-part question.” The crowd lapped it up.

“Dr. Yahdzi,” Johnson said, “I’m glad to see the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated,” which got another general guffaw of approval. And it made Dr. Yahdzi smile, though he seemed unfamiliar with the reference to that greatest of all American raconteurs. “Once again, last time we spoke you seemed concerned—
worried
you would be denied the ability to finish your work either by American or Israeli aggression. Are you still concerned?”

Here, Yahdzi cocked his head once more to Yasmine’s softly speaking lips for a faux Farsi translation. Johnson waited patiently. At last Dr. Ramses Pahlevi Yahdzi of the University of Isfahan spoke, simply:

“Americans and Zionists stand in way at own risk. Iran have every right. American Jews have no right stop us. We are peaceful people. But enemies beware.”

“If I may speak for those at
The Crusader
, the sponsors of this gathering, Professor,” Johnson said, “they wholeheartedly endorse that sentiment, and send their best wishes to your country’s long-suffering people.”

The physicist bowed slightly, and Jo von H mouthed over to him, “Nice, Peter.”

The news conference broke up after an hour with no one more informed than when they went in, which was the unstated purpose of most news conferences. The endless repetition of political positions or outright falsehoods constructed to advance those positions. News conferences merely a means to an end. In the case of Iranian Nuclear Authorities their ability to put a smiley face on Armageddon.

Neville Poore sidled up to him afterwards with a one-word verdict, “Banal.” But Johnson ignored him, trying to keep his eye on Anton, who headed straight to Jo von H. His relentless Ex was mingling in triumph near the front of the room. But Anton didn’t introduce himself, didn’t need to. She put her hand around the young man’s neck and whispered something; then he headed straight to a bar that had magically appeared to service the assembled scribes and strutting TV talent. Johnson stood transfixed. His WTF file was bulging to the breaking point.

Anton pushed his way straight to the bar and hustled back with a drink that looked like bourbon and handed it to Josephine, who opened
up her charmed circle to him and gave him pride of place close to her. Too close. Johnson felt as if he were going to gag but couldn’t believe he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. And then in the midst of making a point that delighted everyone around her, Josephine’s left hand drifted behind Anton and settled on the backside of his shimmery, tailored-to-the-nines suit.

Oh. No. She. Didn’t. Yes, she did. She squeezed the Charmin.

Johnson almost let out a little yelp as if it’d been his backside that was tweaked. He charged toward them, and the circle opened up with murmurs of “Ahh” and “Here’s the man!” Anton’s face lit up: “Peter!” And he gave him a big hug that Johnson wouldn’t have reciprocated if the Iranians had tried to torture it out of him: “You were marvelous!” Jo von H looked at Peter admiringly and shook her head as if she were constantly astounded by his abilities, and then with softer eyes, doe eyes—to the extent her wizened peepers could make them—at Anton: “We both thought so, darling.”

Right. We. Her and her new
Lancelot
.

Johnson raised a finger to make a point he couldn’t even begin to formulate, when Anton interrupted him, “Peter, I’d still love to have a word with you afterwards.” A word with
him
. Peter stumbled out, “Yeah, sure. I’ll be waiting downstairs,” and he hardly saw anything until he was out on the street, pacing and punching up his cell phone.

Trying Wallets. Voice mail. Tried it again. Voice mail. Tried it again—and an annoyed voice: “Peter, what the hell is it?”

“Is that French son of a bitch two-timing on my daughter with
my ex-wife
?”