In 1989, a Chinese man stood alone in front of a line of tanks, seeking an end to the violence against student demonstrators. His image inspired the world. Twenty years later, one woman will risk everything to capture that spirit again. Driven by loss and an uncontrollable need to expose the truth about the powerful men shielded by pillared concrete and mountainous piles of law books, she will use her brains to outwit and her body to manipulate them all, sacrificing her life, if necessary, to broadcast a portrait over the internet she prays will inflame the soul of the world.
From thirty thousand feet in the air, Nicholas McClure wondered if the rugged Alborz Mountains would look as imposing in real life as they did on Google Maps. Already several hours into the flight, the Boeing 787 Dreamliner he boarded in New York was cruising over the endless blue of the Atlantic Ocean with dimmed internal cabin lights. Most of the passengers, roughly three hundred according to the pre-flight video promotion looped continuously until shortly before takeoff, were asleep or struggling with it. Nicholas, a night owl since his freshman year of college, had pried his laptop open as soon as the overhead electronic devise indicator light turned green. Immersed in cyberspace ever since, he had been browsing for the latest news and commentary on his final destination, Tehran, Iran. He was comfortable in the spacious seat, an imitation leather recliner with ample room for his long legs, something the cabs of Manhattan never afforded him. He was pleased that the seat next to him was empty. If only he felt more certain of the reason he was speeding toward the Middle East at six hundred miles per hour or nearly Mach 1, according to the pre-flight video.
His computer screen portrayed a chiseled stretch of rock, wonderfully jagged in an array of tans, browns and greys, beautifully woven together in a symmetric pattern. The mountain range looked like God had dropped a fistful of diamonds. The Almighty must have then churned it with the wind, Nicholas thought, to create the masterpiece, a kaleidoscope wall of shape and color to hold back the Caspian Sea. Nicholas knew his college geology professor would insist it was the result of prehistoric volcanic activity, but Nicholas liked his version better. After all, he was a writer and isn’t that what writers did? Throw a little salt and pepper into an otherwise bland stew?
Nicholas stared vacantly into his lap. He had been a writer. Up until twenty-four hours ago, that is. He slapped the computer lid closed with a frustrated snap. What was he now? What exactly was he now, besides thirty thousand feet up with nothing but air and water beneath him, headed toward a place he had never been to before?
“Do you mind if I take this seat?” a voice asked.
Nicholas looked up to see a gladiator in a polo shirt. At least, that is what the right side of his brain processed, the creative side. It was one of his strengths, he thought, the ability to lampoon on a dime. It was an essential tool for a writer and one he sharpened regularly out of habit. Not everyone saw his instant labeling that way, especially his latest girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, if he was going to be factual about it. She thought it was childish, telling him so in her final remarks before marching out the door with suitcase in hand. As she left, he noticed her angry face twisting like a constipated baby and her nose twitching like a sniffing squirrel. He did not tell her so, thinking it would only feed the fire.
“Be my guest,” Nicholas said. “Take it wherever you want. I’m not using it. The stewardess might notice it missing, though. The carpet underneath is probably a lot cleaner and a dead giveaway a chair was there when we took off.”
“A comedian,” the man said. He raked his hand through his flowing, shoulder length hair and smiled. “When I purchased my ticket, the airline rep didn’t mention anything about live entertainment. I can only guess by this empty, front row seat that your material is less engaging than the in-flight movie.”
“Well, you know, Tootsie is a classic,” Nicholas said. “I mean, Dustin Hoffman in drag? It doesn’t get much better than that. Hollywood has been struggling to match that cinematic brilliance ever since.”
“I would have to agree. Though, I would have liked to have seen him with a little more booty and a little less hair.”
“Special effects back then weren’t what they are today. Perhaps if he had had a body suit like Robin Williams wore ten years later in Mrs. Doubtfire, he could have pulled off a little more of an Anna Nicole Smith look. Makes you appreciate the advances in human ingenuity, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does,” the man said. “It certainly does.” He then sat down and extended a hand to Nicholas. “Tommy Pullman.”
Tommy Gun, Nicholas thought as he shook the man’s hand. “Nick McClure,” he replied. On Tommy’s wrist, Nicholas noticed two colorful bands. The white one he recognized as a One Campaign cause bracelet promoting the end of global poverty, and the blue one as a proclamation of Tommy’s interest in the Crocodile Hunter’s Wildlife Warriors. “What, not concerned about AIDS Awareness?”
“Those only come in red,” Tommy said. “And being that we’re going to be setting down in the middle of a country ‘in hate’ with Americans, I thought it best not to have an American flag wrapped around my wrist. It would be quicker and easier just to cut them myself.”
“Maybe you should have gone with green and red, the Iranian colors,” Nick offered.
“Where we’re headed, that could get a man killed just as fast,” Tommy replied with a grin.
“I take it you know Tehran to be a dangerous place. Have you been there before?”
“I’ve practically been living there for the past three years. I’ve still got a place in Brooklyn but let’s just say I don’t bother stocking the refrigerator. And yes, Tehran can a be a dangerous place if you’re not careful. Didn’t your travel agent point that out in the brochure?”
“I was too busy counting the freckles on her cleavage to ask.”
“While she emptied your bank account by adding sightseeing trips and deep sea fishing excursions to your vacation?”
“Exactly,” Nick said. This guy was smarter than he looked, Nick thought, though he realized Tommy really didn’t look that stupid. It was just that Nick’s first impression had labeled Tommy a pretty boy—a bag of rippling muscles built more for show than go, a designer package adorned in crisp casual wear tactically selected to alert the ladies of the presence of a man of style. It was an obvious macho veneer, but Nick found himself liking Tommy nonetheless.
“Is that why you’re on your way to Iran now, experiencing environmentally progressive aviation at its finest? For a vacation?”
Nick laughed. Tommy had also watched the pre-flight video, obviously taken, as Nick was, with the evident consumer propaganda. He shifted in his seat, irritated, but not by the question as much as the answer he did not have. Nicholas McClure was over a thousand miles away from the sliver of an apartment he had called home for almost twenty years—the Boeing 787quickly adding to that total—and he still wasn’t sure why. He would turn forty in a month. Was that it? A mid-life crisis arriving early? Or was it the recent run-in with a celebrity and the subsequent damage to his sperm generator that tilted his equilibrium like a wobbling Weebles doll? Searching for a reply to his cabin mate’s question, Nick suddenly realized it was a little bit of both.
“Actually, I’m a journalist,” Nick said, finally. “I’m going to Tehran for a story, a yet undefined story. But not about terrorist bombings or the potential of a U.S. invasion. Something with a human-interest spin, you know? Who are Iran’s celebrities and how do they live? Do they even have celebrities?” Even as he said it, Nick was cringing inside. His newfound revulsion with dogging celebrities was one of the two real reasons he was on that plane, if he was honest with himself. The other was the fact that at thirty-nine years of age, he had never written anything of any meaningful value. He had landed a People magazine cover story once—a feature about an alleged affair between a high profile United States Senator and a Barnum and Bailey Circus carny—but that was as close as he had ever come to national recognition. And here he was, confessing to a stranger an impromptu plan to duplicate the same wretched quest in the Middle East. Is that the best thing you can come up with, you pathetic loser?
This time it was Tommy who laughed, loudly. “You’re paparazzi,” he said more exuberantly than Nick would have liked. “Damn, I’ve traveled all over the world and I’ve never met one of you before. Where’s your camera, dude?”
“Parked in front of Lindsey Lohan’s bedroom window, where else,” Nick sarcastically. “My laptop has got a live satellite feed. I’d let you see but I’m under exclusive contract with the National Enquirer. They have first viewer rights and they would sue me if I leaked her freakiest Friday, or even her meekest horizontal bop. You understand.”
Tommy laughed again, a little more subdued this time. “You’re sharp, Nick, I like that,” he said. “I might be able to use a guy like you. You do any freelance work?”
“Everything I do is freelance. What line of work are you in?”
“I’m an economist.”
Nick’s face lit up in genuine surprise.
“Don’t look so shocked. Not all business types are horizontally challenged geeks in pinstriped suits and power ties.”
“I guess I saw you more as an underwear model. Women’s mostly.”
“I can’t lie to you, Nick. I’ve worn my share of lace panties, but only after I’ve removed them from a panting young lady.”
“Duly noted.”
Tommy looked around—gauging the existence of a third-party ear, Nick assumed—before leaning in toward Nick. Then, in a tone just above a whisper, he said, “I’m really more salesman, than accountant.”
“What do you sell?” Nick asked, mimicking his new friend’s hushed tone.
“Economic prosperity.”
Nick had no idea what he was talking about or how to respond. As always, he let his quick wit hide his ignorance. “Does it come with cup holders?”
“If that’s what makes you happy. The company I work for is all about customer satisfaction, Nick. We find out what the customer wants—what the customer needs—and we offer them that and more. Who would turn that down? Not me. Would you?”
“I guess that would depend on what you thought I needed.” Nick said. “If I asked you for an aspirin and you shot me full of morphine instead, I’m not sure I would be thanking you on my way to rehab.”
“That’s funny, Nick,” Tommy snorted. “You’ve got a different way of looking at things, you know that? I’ll bet women love you. They love a man who can make them laugh.”
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