only one who knows what happened.”
Alex swallowed hard and looked at the clock on his desk. Downton’s body had been discovered only a few hours ago.
“He’s gone now,” the voice continued. “I couldn’t stop it. But you need to keep looking.”
Alex wiped sweat from his forehead and sat on the bed. “How did you know he . . . I mean, can you give me anything else to go on?”
“No. But you’re smart, Mr. Vane. Put your education to good use.”
Medilogue One
East 128th Street, New York, New York
The Morning After 9/11
SADIE GREEN LEANED over her laptop and clicked refresh. She scanned the list of the deceased, but didn’t see his name. It was 8:30 a.m. Still too early to call.
She walked in circles around her couch—reading the headlines of the five newspapers spread across it again and again—then stopped in front of a long mirror on the wall. She looked tired . She had slept only three hours and still wore baggy Batman pajamas over her slight frame. Using her fingers like a comb, she smoothed her short brown hair.
Each of the three TVs on the floor played a different station. On CNN, two talking heads debated when President Bush should visit Ground Zero. She switched to CNBC, where Denver Bice was being interviewed by a perky blonde woman. He wore a black suit with a USA pin attached to the lapel and his hard jaw popped under the studio lights.
“Mr. Bice, in the weeks before the attacks there were rumors in the business community about a possible merger between your company, Standard Media, and—”
Bice held up his hand. “Deborah, I’m sorry. We know that American business will continue in the face of these horrific attacks. We know there will be a time for that. Right now, America needs to focus on—”
Sadie muted the TV. Asshole.
She threw the remote on the couch and stared at two small picture frames on the wall. The first was black and held a piece of white linen paper on which she had typed two quotes in a neat, cursive font:
Any dictator would admire the uniformity and obedience of the US Media.
-Noam Chomsky
Whoever controls the media controls the mind.
-Jim Morrison
She took down the second frame and sat on the couch. It was a letter printed on the official stationary of Hollinger Quantitative Investing. She cradled it in her small hands.
December 16, 1999
Sadie,
This morning I sat at my desk and read about stocks, baseball, and fashion. May the people of the Sudan one day have the same luxury, with your help.
Mac Hollinger
Sadie had begun corresponding with Hollinger while working as the executive director of Free Sudan, a not-for-profit whose mission was to set up the first independent TV station in the region. During her two years in Africa she had taught English, trained would-be journalists, and tried to convince wealthy donors to pay for equipment. After six months of letters to Hollinger, Free Sudan had received a $300,000 donation, which she had used it to train a crew to produce a local newscast with digital cameras.
When she returned to New York to manage the Media Protection Organization, her first call was to Hollinger. He declined to meet with her for a few months, but she called him every week.
In the summer of 2000, her persistence paid off. By October they were meeting for lunch every few weeks and, over the next ten months, Hollinger donated about $500,000—a quarter of MPO’s annual budget. Sadie found him to be naïve about the modern media, but genuine, thoughtful, and kind in a way that unnerved her. She often wondered why a billionaire investor allowed her to lecture him about the media. But each time his secretary scheduled an appointment, Sadie arrived with soup from his favorite deli and tried to chisel away at his view of the world.
She turned the frame over in her hands and looked at the clock: 9 a.m. Finally.She walked to her desk where she carefully set down the frame. Then she sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed Hollinger’s
Alex swallowed hard and looked at the clock on his desk. Downton’s body had been discovered only a few hours ago.
“He’s gone now,” the voice continued. “I couldn’t stop it. But you need to keep looking.”
Alex wiped sweat from his forehead and sat on the bed. “How did you know he . . . I mean, can you give me anything else to go on?”
“No. But you’re smart, Mr. Vane. Put your education to good use.”
Medilogue One
East 128th Street, New York, New York
The Morning After 9/11
SADIE GREEN LEANED over her laptop and clicked refresh. She scanned the list of the deceased, but didn’t see his name. It was 8:30 a.m. Still too early to call.
She walked in circles around her couch—reading the headlines of the five newspapers spread across it again and again—then stopped in front of a long mirror on the wall. She looked tired . She had slept only three hours and still wore baggy Batman pajamas over her slight frame. Using her fingers like a comb, she smoothed her short brown hair.
Each of the three TVs on the floor played a different station. On CNN, two talking heads debated when President Bush should visit Ground Zero. She switched to CNBC, where Denver Bice was being interviewed by a perky blonde woman. He wore a black suit with a USA pin attached to the lapel and his hard jaw popped under the studio lights.
“Mr. Bice, in the weeks before the attacks there were rumors in the business community about a possible merger between your company, Standard Media, and—”
Bice held up his hand. “Deborah, I’m sorry. We know that American business will continue in the face of these horrific attacks. We know there will be a time for that. Right now, America needs to focus on—”
Sadie muted the TV. Asshole.
She threw the remote on the couch and stared at two small picture frames on the wall. The first was black and held a piece of white linen paper on which she had typed two quotes in a neat, cursive font:
Any dictator would admire the uniformity and obedience of the US Media.
-Noam Chomsky
Whoever controls the media controls the mind.
-Jim Morrison
She took down the second frame and sat on the couch. It was a letter printed on the official stationary of Hollinger Quantitative Investing. She cradled it in her small hands.
December 16, 1999
Sadie,
This morning I sat at my desk and read about stocks, baseball, and fashion. May the people of the Sudan one day have the same luxury, with your help.
Mac Hollinger
Sadie had begun corresponding with Hollinger while working as the executive director of Free Sudan, a not-for-profit whose mission was to set up the first independent TV station in the region. During her two years in Africa she had taught English, trained would-be journalists, and tried to convince wealthy donors to pay for equipment. After six months of letters to Hollinger, Free Sudan had received a $300,000 donation, which she had used it to train a crew to produce a local newscast with digital cameras.
When she returned to New York to manage the Media Protection Organization, her first call was to Hollinger. He declined to meet with her for a few months, but she called him every week.
In the summer of 2000, her persistence paid off. By October they were meeting for lunch every few weeks and, over the next ten months, Hollinger donated about $500,000—a quarter of MPO’s annual budget. Sadie found him to be naïve about the modern media, but genuine, thoughtful, and kind in a way that unnerved her. She often wondered why a billionaire investor allowed her to lecture him about the media. But each time his secretary scheduled an appointment, Sadie arrived with soup from his favorite deli and tried to chisel away at his view of the world.
She turned the frame over in her hands and looked at the clock: 9 a.m. Finally.She walked to her desk where she carefully set down the frame. Then she sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed Hollinger’s
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