From the first chapter ...

Michael Miller looked up into the gray Connecticut sky and tried hard to see something—anything—that would make him forget the feeling of rejection. It had been six years since he was appointed to a faculty position—six years of teaching on the campus of Weston University— and now his colleagues refused to grant him tenure. As a result, he would leave the university at the end of the Spring term.

         He received the bad news 30 minutes earlier. The new department chairperson, Karen Milano, looked stricken as she paced between her desk and the bookshelves that lined the entire wall of her office. Michael knew what was coming before Milano opened her mouth.

         “I did everything I could, Mike,” her normally confident voice sounded weary, defeated, “I used reason, I tried emotion, I even got thoroughly pissed off.”

         Milano stopped at the bookshelf and absently adjusted the alignment of a few volumes.  “Nothing worked. O’Brien simply has too many allies in this department. He was out to get you, and he did.”

        Michael studied the woman who had been his friend since the first day he arrived on the Weston campus. Karen had been at the university for three years when Michael arrived. At that time, she was the only female member of the computer science department. She occupied a much smaller office then, located next to his.

        Michael first arrived on the Weston campus on a day in late August, two weeks before classes were to begin. The computer science building was deserted. He was dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt soaked with sweat from lugging boxes of books and wood shelving across the parking lot and up two flights of stairs in 90 degree heat. He was rummaging in his toolbox when a young woman walked by and leaned through the office doorway.

        “Getting the office ready for the new guy, huh?” The woman assumed he was a maintenance man.

        Michael looked up and smiled. “Yeah, gotta do the work.” He couldn’t resist, “You know anything about him?”

        The woman shrugged her shoulders. “The new guy?  I saw his CV—that’s his resume. He’s young, my age, published a lot, written a book, that’s real important in our biz.” She paused for a moment, as if considering whether to continue. “Marie, she’s the department secretary, says he’s tall and handsome, but married. Just my luck,” she laughed, her guard down.

        She took a step into the office, noticing the boxes of books on the floor and leaned over to glance at the titles. “Looks like he’s already been here.”

        “Yeah.” Michael moved across the office to get a different screwdriver. The woman was dressed in baggy gym shorts and a cutoff sweatshirt that covered a spandex workout suit. She was about 5’7” with the look of an athlete. Although Michal didn’t know it at the time, her Mediterranean good looks were a product of an Irish mother and an Italian father.

        She moved out of his way and back toward the door. “Seem like a nice guy?”

        Michael returned to the shelving. “I have no trouble with him.”

        “Well, if he comes back, tell him to stop by, my name is Karen Milano, I’m in the next office.”

        Michael waited until he heard her office door close. He then walked over and knocked.

        “Someone told me to come over and introduce myself to a Karen Milano,” he said with a wry smile, “that must be you. I’m Michael Miller, the new guy—tall, handsome.”

        Karen’s brown eyes grew wide and her dark skin flushed. “Oops, I ... uh, that wasn’t fair, Michael.” She laughed and stood, extending her hand. They sat and talked for almost an hour on that first day and on many other days over the intervening six years. And now, this.

        Michael refocused on his current predicament and sighed as he studied the books lining the wall of the department chairperson.

        “You know, Karen, my mom is really superstitious ... used to say that troubles come in 3’s. Guess this is number two. So I’ve still got one to go.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad.

        Milano understood and nodded her head slowly. “How long has it been?”

        “What? Since the divorce? Uh, ... about nine months.” Michael steepled his hands and pushed them together hard. “It’s only been about a month since I stopped feeling sorry for myself. Guess I can start up again, huh? He tried to sound amused, but it fell flat.

        Milano frowned. “Here ... sit Mike, let’s talk. We’ll figure something out.”

        “Not much to talk about,” Michael paused, as if reviewing a time past. “Look, I know you did what you could. Bottom line is that O’Brien and I haven’t gotten along for three years. It was the union thing that iced it. When I voted against the strike, I made an enemy for life.”

        Karen Milano played with a lose strand of hair. “The vote was 3 to 2, in case you’re interested.”

        “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” said Michael, feeling a little bit better for reasons that he couldn’t completely understand.

        She shook her head. “Mike, you amaze me. You never get angry, never really lose it. I’d be nuts if this happened to me.”

        Michael smiled. “Yeah, that’s what Ellen said the night she served me with divorce papers—’no passion.’ Guess the fact that I was making less than $80K a year was a sure sign of lack of fervor.”

        “Come on, Mike, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” Milano had been Mike’s confidant during the dark days after Ellen left Connecticut and moved into New York City, leaving Michael to take care of their then six-year old son, Travis. During that time Karen and Michael easily could have become more than friends, but it just didn’t happen.

        “I know, I know,” said Michael, raising his palm as he spoke, exhaling audibly.

        Milano studied him. “I’ve already made a few inquiries for you.”

        “Damn, that was fast.”

        “What I mean is ... you’ll have a position—a good one—next fall ... count on it.”

        Michael stood up and smiled. “Nice to have friends in high places.”

        Karen laid both hands flat on the top of her desk. “Go on home to your little buddy. Tell Travis I said hi, would you?”

        Michael nodded and turned to leave.

        Karen called after him. “Hey, Mike? If you want to talk later, just give me a call.”

        Michael’s leaned against the door jam, a bemused look on his face. He started to say something and then stopped, editing his response. “Thanks, Karen, maybe I will.”

        He didn’t recall the drive home. A wall of evergreens lined both sides of the Merritt Parkway , channeling his Toyota through the southern Connecticut countryside, past the Bridgeport exits and into north Fairfield, but Michael didn’t even notice them. He tried to come to grips with the fact that he’d be on a new campus next year. Starting over wasn’t pleasant when you were 37 years old.

        Just that morning, Ellen had left a voice mail at the university, saying she had something “important” to discuss. She left the message in her terse New York tone, as if he was a wayward business associate who hadn’t performed to her expectations. Likely some bullshit about their joint custody arrangement, thought Michael. Travis would be going to her place in New York for spring break, and the logistics, although manageable, were never easy.

        He called her as he was exiting the Merritt Parkway and amazingly, caught Ellen in her office.

        “Hi, I got your message. What’s up?”

        “Hello, Michael, Ellen’s voice was pleasant, but business-like. I’m on my way to a meeting in two minutes. She paused. “Look, can I come out this evening, say between 7:00 and 8:00?”

        “Uh ... sure.” Michael was surprised. His ex-wife rarely visited on such short notice. “This must be important. Give me a hint?”

        “No time, Michael. We’ll talk this evening.”

        Michael clicked off the mobile phone as he turned onto his street. His house, a small colonial, was at the end of a cul-de-sac in an upper-middle class Fairfield neighborhood.  He hit the garage door opener, navigating around the part-time-nanny’s car, which was parked haphazardly in the driveway, and walked in the kitchen entrance. 

        “Hey, Rita, how’s it going?” Michael dropped his briefcase on the kitchen table and took off his sport jacket, folding it over a chair.

        Rita looked up from a romance novel she had been reading at the kitchen table. “Fine, Dr. Miller, no problems ... Trav is in his bedroom. I told him he could play until you got home.” She moved to get her coat.

        “Did he have a snack?” Michael was absently rifling through a pile of mail on the kitchen counter.

        She nodded. “Yep, he told me he’d prefer ‘bug burgers,’ but peanut butter and jelly went over okay. Dinner—it’s chicken and stuff—is in the oven. Ready in about 30 minutes.”

        “Bug burgers?” Michael shook his head and smiled. His son’s obsession with spiders—the seven year old preferred the proper term, arachnids—was a puzzlement. Since spiders ate bugs, Travis wanted to eat them too, at least in his fertile imagination.

        “Gotta go,” said the nanny as she headed out the door. “Be here at 9:00 tomorrow, as usual.”

        Michael waved and headed toward the stairway to the second floor. By the time he reached the landing, he heard his son’s unmistakable patter. Travis was playing in an imaginary world of insect heroes and villains that he had concocted for himself.

        “Come on, Mr. Ant ... we have to kill the wasp king.” The first voice was artificially low—a little boy grasping for a basso profundo that he couldn’t possibly achieve.

        Now, falsetto. “No ... the wasp king will escape, Spidey. We have to learn from our mistakes.”

        Michael laughed quietly as he stood just outside the doorway, surveying his son’s bedroom. He knew where that last line came from. 

        The floor was littered with action figures, crayon drawings of spiders, and a large coffee table book entitled The World of Arachnids. A sweat shirt, pulled inside out, was lying half on and half off the bed, and a Bridgeport Bluefish baseball cap sat perched on an ant farm that occupied the entire top of his dresser.  Travis’ knapsack, contents spilled haphazardly on the bed, contained a sock (God only knew why), a small book on Venomous Spiders with a picture of a black widow on the cover (Travis brought the book to school for show and tell), and what appeared to be crumpled notices from his teacher. Six baby-food jars, their labels neatly scraped off and their tops punctured with nail holes, sat on a shelf directly above the knapsack. Although Michael couldn’t see the residents, he knew that the jars contained six different species of household spiders. He noticed a slightly larger jar that he didn’t recognize at the far end of the shelf.

        Michael did his best impression of a James Earl Jones, “The Scorpion King has come home, and he will eat all little boys who are not ready for dinner in 15 minutes.”

        Travis spun his head in the direction of the doorway, eyes wide. “Daddy ... you’re not the scorpion king ... you’re my Dad!” Like all seven year olds, he said this as much to reassure himself as he did for the conversational impact.

        Michael smiled as he walked into the room. “Hey Pal, how was your day?” He knelt down and hugged his son who reciprocated with a huge squeeze.

        “I don’t have time to eat,” Travis curled his lower lip downward in a mock pout. “If I do, Spidey will be abanded and the Wasp King will escape.”

        “You mean abandoned, Trav.”

        “Yeah, abanded. Anyway, I have to finish this adventure or Mr. Ant will be in big trouble.”

        “Seven year olds need to eat if they’re going to grow up big and strong, buddy. Otherwise, you’ll be in trouble.”

        “Seven and a half,” said Travis indignantly.

        “Okay, Mr. Bigshot ... Mr. Bug Brain ... Mr. ...” Michael was tickling Travis, who was squirming and giggling at the same time. “Let’s clean up this room and get you cleaned up for dinner.”

        “Tell me a Mr. Ant story,” said Travis, negotiating as usual.

        “Later ... before bed ... and only after you’re in PJ’s.”

        “Cool!” said the little boy, squirming free from his father’s grasp. “Guess what happened in school today?” Travis was in second grade at the Ann B. Forrester Elementary School.

        Michael scratched his head in mock puzzlement. “Uhhh, a giant meteor landed on top of the school and fell through the roof and into Miss Moffitt’s class. It hit you on the head.”

        Travis looked exasperated. “Dad ... then I’d have a band aid on my head ... see ... I don’t.”

        Michael gave his son a sly smile. “Okay, okay, okay, I know. You drove the school bus home.”

        “Daaad. This is important. Guess.”

        “I give up pal. Tell me.”

        “Well, I was reading in the Ant Thology series—that’s what Miss Moffitt calls our reading book.

        Michael chuckled. “Anthology, Trav, it’s one word.”

        “Uh huh. Anyway. I was reading and right in front of me ... no ... I mean right in front of Becky Palmer ... well, Becky screamed, and everybody laughed and Miss Moffitt was scared, and I saved the day.”

        Michael smiled. “Saved the day from what, Trav?”

        “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell that part.” He paused for a moment, his small brow knotted in concentration, trying to formulate the story. “See ... Becky was sitting there and right in front of her was this spider ... on her desk. It looked like a Loxosceles, but it wasn’t. At least I think it ...”

        Michael interrupted, “Loxosceles, Loxosceles, that one is dangerous, isn’t it?”

        “Good Dad, you’re learning.” His son gave him an approving nod. “Anyway, Becky doesn’t like spiders and neither does Miss Moffitt. So I captured it and put it in a jar that we use to keep crayons. I was a hero.”

        “Travis Miller, you were a hero. Good thing you’re a spider expert.”

        The little boy smiled proudly. “Miss Moffitt said I could bring the spider home! It’s over there.” Travis pointed at the shelf.

        “That’s great, Trav. He can be friends with the others. Now, let’s get you and this room cleaned up, and then dinner.”

        The first few months after Ellen had left had been hell. Travis was a basket case, acting out in school and moping around at home. To make matters worse, every time Michael looked at Travis, he was reminded of Ellen, and unconsciously, he kept the boy at arm’s length because of it. This exacerbated Travis’ insecurity and a vicious cycle was established. Travis became even more needy for his father’s love, and Michael withdrew further.

        Luckily for them both, Karen Milano had watched this happen over many weeks and finally confronted her friend about it. Michael listened (he had always believed that women were better at diagnosing affairs of the heart), agreed, and reversed himself. He smothered the little boy with love and as the months passed, both he a Travis settled into a reassuring routine. Travis missed his mother immensely and hoped against hope that the divorce would be reversed. Michael tried to explain that he and Ellen would not get back together, but Travis simply couldn’t accept -wouldn’t acknowledge- that fact.

        Michael and Ellen had met in graduate school twelve years earlier. Ellen was completing coursework for her MBA, Michael was working on his Ph.D. Even then, Ellen was intense, her perfect 4.0 GPA in grad school, a harbinger of the fast track career to come. They always laughed when friends asked how they met.

        “In the computer center,” Ellen would say with a wry smile. “Romantic, huh?”

        Actually, Michael had noticed her months before they met, but he was too shy and much too insecure to approach a girl who could have appeared in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. It was Ellen, in fact, who made the first contact by asking Michael to help her with a database problem.

        “Thanks for the help.” Ellen was grateful for the help. “Let me buy you lunch.”

        Michael was shocked that Ms. Swimsuit made the offer. “Uh … lunch? Sure, yeah, that would be nice.”

        They became a couple within two weeks, began living together by the end of the school year, and were married one year later.

        Their life was fine during their early years—a young upwardly mobile professional couple.  Ellen had a strong personality—a definite type A. Michael’s calm view of the world complemented her intensity.

        On her way up the corporate ladder, Ellen held three different jobs for three different companies, each with higher salary, greater responsibility, and more power. But the climb came at a price. She fought, and ultimately lost, the battle to separate her business life from her personal life. She became more and more distant as the years passed.

        Michael’s world was calmer. His duties as a professor were relatively easy for him, and his research in the burgeoning field of computer security was a joy. He knew that Ellen envied his laid back life style, but at the same time found him lacking in some way—not enough drive to make it in the ‘real world.’

        Michael set the kitchen table while Travis cleaned his room. Travis ‘cleaned’ by collecting every stray item in the room and piling it on his bed. The floor, undoubtedly, would be spotless. The bed, on the other hand, would be a nightmare. Michael smiled at the thought, knowing that Ellen would have gone ballistic at the sight of Trav’s bed, piled high with toys, spider jars, and assorted junk. That was part of their problem, particularly in the last few years before the divorce—Ellen was simply too intense, and Michael felt that Travis suffered because of it.

        Travis bounded into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

        Michael got up and walked to the oven. “Thought I’d make something different tonight, Trav.”

        “What?”

        “Bugburgers.”

From the second chapter ...

He studied the elegant nude in the painting carefully, a half empty tumbler of Grey Goose in one hand and his reading glasses in the other. Bold multicolor brush strokes ran vertically along the painting and acted as a backdrop for a naked female form in shadow. The form had no head and its arms were drawn backward, giving it a sculptural quality. He smiled, thinking that his brother would not approve—very un-Islamic, very seditious. Yet the painting was worth thousands and was the product of one of the best living Lebanese artists—a man who fled his home and currently lived in Europe.  Hezballah was not pleased with his work.

        The phone rang and he turned to pick it up. He caught his reflection in the floor to ceiling windows of his multi-million dollar co-op apartment. The view south from the 27th floor was absolutely spectacular. The Empire State Building, illuminated by red, white, and blue floodlights, served as a centerpiece for an otherwise monochromatic light show that emanated from the forest of skyscrapers that defined mid-town Manhattan. In the background, a dark space where the towers of the World Trade Center once stood created a hole in the panorama of lights that was the skyline of New York City.

        His front door chime would ring in less than a minute. She’ll be impressed, he thought smugly, even a jaded reporter from Vanity Fair will be impressed by this view.

        As if on queue, the door chime announced the visitor. He pivoted and walked casually down the long hallway past an original Doris Bittar—a painting that depicted a series of intricate symmetrical designs into which were embedded the elegant, Syriac calligraphy of his homeland.

        “Andrea, it’s nice to meet you.” He extended his hand and shook hers warmly, gently guiding her into the foyer. The reporter looked around, nodding approvingly.

        “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Haddad. Thank you for meeting me here, instead of your office. It’ll give me a much better feel for you, if you know what I mean.”

        She surveyed the decor, an eclectic mix of modern furniture accented with paintings and sculpture that gave it a distinctly Middle Eastern feel, but with a sophistication that somehow modified the overall affect. She understood Haddad’s roots, so the decorating came as no surprise.

        He smiled and nodded. “Please, call me Sal. As I understand it, my agent has arranged for us to spend some time together over the next few days. Better that we keep things informal, don’t you think?”

        The reporter nodded, turning her gaze from the spectacular apartment to Salim “Sal” Haddad himself. He was more handsome in person than he was on the tube. Surprisingly tall, with an excellent physique for a man in his late-40s. A full head of black hair, graying nicely at the temples. Brown-black, piercing eyes that probed without seeming threatening. And the voice, that sonorous baritone, the voice heard by millions every night.

        “Here,” he said, pointing to a long sofa that faced the New York skyline. “Please ... sit. Would you like something to drink?”

        The reporter asked for sparkling water. Haddad rang for his valet who appeared within seconds. “A Perrier for the lady, Daniel, and another Vodka-rocks for me.”

        He crossed to a large leather easy chair, his back to the window, stretched casually and sat down facing her.

        “I’m usually the one doing the interviewing,” he chuckled.

        She smiled. “It won’t hurt.  I suspect you’ve done this a few thousand times.”

        “True, but never for a 10,000 word piece in Vanity Fair. I’m not sure my life and times warrant 10,000 words.” His modesty was false.

        “So ... where to begin?” she mused out loud. I’m told that you were born in the United States, but spent your early years in Lebanon.”

        He nodded. “The best years of my life. Until the problems of recent years, I tried to get back to my home outside Beirut every year. Now …”

        Haddad cultivated his image as a European-style sophisticate—worldly and at the same time, weary of the “problems” that his beleaguered country had endured over the past 20 years. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as a prototypical American success story—the child of an immigrant family, who, with hard work and dogged determination, had risen to the pinnacle of his profession. Every demographic bought into the image without question.

        The reporter looked down at her notes. “Your father died when you were young?”

        Again, he nodded. “Yes, tends to make you grow up rather quickly. I was only nine at the time. My mom and I struggled, but things worked out in the end.

        Haddad’s father was an angry man who had abused his wife and failed at nearly everything he tried. He died of liver cancer, but his mother used to say that his spirit died years earlier. Haddad had massaged his father’s image, at first trying to hide the fact that he was a failure. Then, when it became chic to admit to family foibles, he wrote about the man at length in one of his books. He always, however, gave his father an air of tragic nobility, the victim of oppression in his homeland and prejudice in his adopted country. He never mentioned the man’s violent temper, the verbal and physical abuse he heaped on his wife, or his questionable connections and friends.

        The reporter seemed to consider a number of questions, settling on one that juxtaposed past and present. “Many people look at you as an American father figure. How did you cope without a father of your own during your teenage years.”

        “Hmmm. Good question. My mother remarried after my father died. My step-dad took over the role, sort of adopted me as a second son. I had plenty of good advice, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

        “Such as?”

        “All very Horatio Alger,” he said with a chuckle. “God and country. Honesty and honor. Hard work and perseverance. I ... uh … I know it all sounds trite, but as the son of immigrants, it resonated.” Haddad said this with practiced sincerity.

        “I checked out your high school record, even called your old school and few of your teachers, all retired. Sort of an unremarkable high school career, based on what I’ve been able to find out.”

        Haddad smiled, but he felt tense. He didn’t like people prying into his early years. Embarrassing connections might be discovered. Very damaging, very dangerous.

        “Guilty,” he laughed, the consummate actor. “College wasn’t much better. I really wasn’t much of a student.”

        They talked about his teenage years—innocuous prattle.  Haddad began to relax as the time line moved forward.

        “So you took your first news job directly out of college?”

        He nodded. “I was the car-crash-and-bar-room-brawl reporter for KLAZ-TV in my home town. A pretty big deal as far as my mother was concerned. Made 160 dollars a week—just enough to live on in Los Angeles.” He laughed at the thought, his amusement genuine.

        She looked at her notes and then into his eyes. “You didn’t have a meteoric rise, I think it’s fair to say.”

        Again he smiled at the woman, trying to disarm her. “I agree, it was a long struggle in the earlier years. Perseverance. I stayed at KLAZ for a while, then went to a station in Sacramento, then to Des Moines and a few other smaller markets, then to Minneapolis, and finally Chicago as a weekend anchor and prime time reporter. It was a long road.”

        “And you came to the attention of the networks when you were in Chicago?”

        The story was the stuff of legend.

        “Yes, I was anchor for the Chicago affiliate of GMN, in my mid-30s by then. I got lucky ... got to the scene of a bombing of a Jewish Community Center before anyone else. We got some exclusive footage before the feds closed access to the site. It’s sad that the bombing hurt innocent people, but there were a lot of hard feelings about Israel at that time.

        He shook his head. “One dead, a dozen injured. A harbinger of things to come, though.” He looked gravely concerned, thoughtful. In fact, he felt nothing.

        “But you were a hero at that scene.”

        “Well, I did pull a few people out of the rubble, yes I did.”

        In fact, Haddad, and only Haddad, had been given advance notice that the bomb would be detonated. He warned no one, arriving seconds after the explosion and ignoring two seriously hurt men, moved through the rubble with his camera man, looking for a woman or a child to save. He found a little girl, no more than 7 or 8 years old in the wreckage of the daycare center. She was trapped under some light rubble. As the video camera rolled, Haddad talked to the child reassuring her, while at the same time working feverishly to free her. In the background, the sound of approaching sirens. It was remarkable television, live, poignant, heroic, immediate. It was the beginning of great things for Sal Haddad.

        “You were in New York a year later?”

        “True,” he smiled. “A lucky break for me. Unlucky for the bombing victims.”

        “My researcher tells me you were at 5 stations in 13 years. Must have been hard on you ... your wife.”

        “It was. He feigned a grave expression. “My first wife just wasn’t cut out for the nomadic life. We parted company after a stint in Minneapolis.”

        The reporter nodded. “People say it was an ugly breakup. Why the enmity?”

        Haddad shrugged. “I tried to figure that out afterward. Don’t know.”

        In fact, Salim Haddad knew exactly why Miriam Lancaster left him, and it had nothing to do with his nomadic life in television. Miriam was the perfect match a young Haddad. Half Lebanese and half American, she was a dark-eyed beauty who understood the culture of the Middle East, and through her Lebanese mother, gained insight into the psyche of Arab males. Haddad—handsome, charismatic, and a man on the move—was everything she could have wanted. But that was at the beginning.

        During their first winter in the twin cities. Haddad had a torrid affair with the weather girl at a rival TV station. Although it never became public, Haddad did little to hide it from his wife When she confronted him, Haddad’s legendary temper got the best of him. He flew into a rage and beat Miriam severely enough to require a brief emergency room visit. Luckily for Haddad, the beating occurred before spousal abuse disclosure laws were put into effect.

        Haddad, shaken by his actions, convinced Miriam not to leave. He even broke off his relationship with the weather girl.

        But the violence returned, and after a time, Miriam Lancaster left him. Afraid of her husband, she disappeared.

        The reporter smiled sympathetically, changing the subject. “So you moved to the big apple and ... what? ... ten years ago you get the network anchor position?”

        Haddad nodded. “That’s right ... it happened less than a year after 9/11, and the country was still recovering.”

        There were some who believed that the network execs who elevated Haddad to the anchor’s chair did so in the name of political correctness. After all, what better way to tell the world that the people of United States were committed to diversity than to make a Lebanese Christian—the son of Arab refugees from a war-torn country, the face of GMN news.

        “How did it feel,” asked the reporter, “to be an Arab-American in the aftermath of 9/11?”

        Haddad furrowed his brow and feigned concern. “There was always tension, at least under the surface. As I’ve said publically many times, it’s wrong to blame all Muslims for the actions of a few fanatics. Those who do so are racists, and it is they, not the Muslim-Americans, who are unamerican. Personally, I’m a Christian and I have no use for the Islamists who preach hate. But I do understand what drives them to do so.”

        The Vanity Fair reporter could have pursued his comments, but she had read them dozens of times. She moved on.

        “You’re a friend of kings and presidents, a shaper of national opinion. Your second marriage was to a Hollywood icon. We have a lot to discuss, Mr. Had... Sal.”

        Haddad smiled. Everything she said was true. Over the years, he had cultivated his image carefully. Newsman, author, American icon. Members of the Congress came to him first when they wanted to float some new idea in front of the American people. Business leaders offered him unprecedented access, more afraid of him than their own boards of directors. He regularly called the President on a phone line normally reserved for only the closest family members and friends. He partied in Hollywood, New York, London, and Paris. World leaders courted him when they had something to say to America.

        A recent feature article in the New York Times Magazine had called him “the Cronkite of the 21st century.” A Newsweek cover story referred to him as “America’s Newsman.” Thirty million people watched his newscast every evening, became indignant as a result of his investigative reports, rewarded those who he praised, and shunned those who he criticized. He spoke the truth, or at least that was the public’s perception. And this was television—the land of make believe. Perception was all that mattered.

        He decided to engage the Vanity Fair reporter in gossip and talked at length about his dealings with past presidents, a now disgraced Speaker of the House, the assassinated leader of a Middle Eastern country, and his second, movie-star wife. It would make great copy.

        Haddad was tiring of this interview. He silently cursed his agent for setting in up, but his new book would be coming out within a month. It would easily net him 5 million dollars, worth a few interviews, no doubt.

        The reporter changed direction. “I’ve spoken with folks at the network. You have friends, but you also have enemies.”

        Haddad nodded calmly. “Goes with the territory.”

        “Your friends say only the best about you. But your enemies ... well ... they say you’re difficult to work with, self-centered, not at all like the country’s image of you.”

        Haddad smiled indulgently.  “I am a demanding person ... and I make no apologies for that. I hold myself and my staff to the highest standards and sometimes that piss ... that angers people. They might interpret my actions as self-centered, but I always try to do what’s right, for the news, for the industry.”

        Again, the reporter changed directions. “It’s been almost two years since your second marriage ended.. You’ve been linked to a number of women, the paparazzi have a field day whenever you’re in public with someone. What’s the story, Sal?”

        He ran his hand through his hair, looking mildly defiant as he faced her question. “My private life is my own. But I can say that there is no one at the moment. I enjoy the company of many intelligent, wonderful women. Maybe some day, but for now, I’m a freelancer.

        Haddad lied again. He did have someone at the moment, the only problem was that she was 10 years his junior, unknown to the public at large, and not as awed by America’s Newsman as he thought she should be. Their relationship had been typical. He stalked her, closed for the kill, and now possessed her. That was the way Haddad had come to view his liaisons, like a hunt in the foothills of Lebanon’s Alpine mountains.

        They talked for another hour and then Haddad gently terminated the interview. After the reporter left, he walked back into the living room and called his agent.

        “Manny, it went well.”

        “That’s great, Sal,” said Haddad’s agent. An article in Vanity Fair ‘ll do wonders for the book, it might even improve your evening share, although it’s pretty good right now.”

        “Yeah, yeah, listen. Have we made any headway on the new contract?”

        “Been dancing with Dockington all week. You know him ... has to play mighty leader. He’ll fold. Count on it.”

        Robert Dockington was arguably the only person at Global Media Corporation with more clout than Salim Haddad. As CEO of the holding company and President of the network, he was the man who negotiated Haddad’s contract, currently at just over $12.4 million per year.

        “How’d he react to the 10-year contract proposal with escalation regardless of ad revenue?” asked Haddad.

        “He turned three different shades of pink,” laughed the agent. “Like I said, we’ll get it done. Don’t worry about it.”

        Haddad had to make another call before it got too late in the Central time zone. “What else have you got?”

        “Nothing that can’t wait for tomorrow.”

        “Good.” Haddad hung up without saying goodbye.