"Yeah, it could be just that simple," Herman replied. "We're due for a break."

Suddenly, Susan snapped her head back toward the receiver. "You did?!" she asked. "When? How long ago? Who is this?" She listened, then turned to her father, "I found the service-Air Jordan. This is the pilot who flew him, Jordan Phoenix." She put the phone back on speaker as Herman hustled across the room to get closer.

"Yes. Say that again," he demanded.

"Just like I told her." A rough female voice came over the phone. "We got chased out of the desert by a military chopper. Once we landed, a buncha federal cops swarmed the plane with guns. They arrested Wirta and took him off in a van."

"How long ago?" Herman asked.

"Must've been a little past three. By the way, he left his camera if you wanta come pick it up. But, except for a shot or two of the helicopter that chased us, he didn't take many pictures."

Herman thanked her and said they'd get it. Then Susan disconnected the call.

"What do you think they're gonna do to him?" Susan asked with concern.

"I don't know," Herman answered. "But we've gotta do something to turn the heat up on those guys. We need to get some headlines fast… something to keep them from killing Jack and dropping him in a hole somewhere."

Susan's beautiful face was distorted with worry. "How… how do we do that, Dad?"

"Get my phone directory," he said.

Susan reached into her briefcase and pulled out a leather book full of his important numbers.

"Call Barbra's PR guy… Swifty something. Little guy. We met him last year at her Christmas party."

"Swifty Sutherland?" Susan said, finding it in the book.

"Right, that's the guy. And while I talk to him, try to reach Donald Trump in New York."

Jerome Sutherland had more catchy nicknames than a minor league baseball team. During his forty-plus years in PR, he was "The Flack in a Hat," because in the fifties he favored snap brims. In the seventies, he'd been called "Deadline," and for two years during the eighties, when some of his clients were Wall Street crooks, he was "Junk Bond Jerry." But the name that fit him best and lasted the longest was Swifty. He was a hundred and twenty pounds of kinetic energy packed in a diminutive, fast-moving body. His bald head was shaved and his eyebrows loomed like tangled brush, dominating a face that never stopped smiling.

Swifty had played high-stakes celebrity roulette for almost half a century, scraping up more nasty messes than a waste-removal contractor. He got fluff printed and bad news buried while cornering the market on insincerity.

One of Swifty's patented tactics was to dig up and archive scandalous, unpublished stories on stars he didn't represent. When one of his own clients checked into Betty Ford, or was on the verge of being outed by The Advocate, he would call up the reporter who was about to print the career disaster and offer up somebody else's horror story in return for keeping his star's indiscretions secret. This practice had earned him the nickname "Liar for Hire." He definitely knew how to walk the edge of a troublesome press release.

Swifty suggested that Herman meet him for dinner at the trendy Bistro Garden in the Valley where the flack had a reserved nightly "gunfighter table" that commanded a good view of the high-ceilinged, attractive room. The happy little man who never seemed to stop smiling sat with his back to the wall and gazed over Herman's shoulder at restaurant traffic while Herman filled him in. Swifty nodded as if the unusual nature of the tale was not in the least bit troublesome.

"Babs says this is on her account. She's the best, so you got the best," the little man said after Herman finished. For a behind-the-scenes employee, the statement showed a surprising lack of modesty. During all of this Swifty almost never looked at Herman, preferring to watch the busy room instead. "Dick Zanuck with Richard Cook. Wonder what those two guys are up to?" he said unexpectedly.

"Huh?" Herman was getting irritated.

"Nothing. So, what's the drill? You want me to get this trial you're doing into the press?" he said, shooting his gaze to the right as two new groups of patrons came through the door. They must've been nobodies, because he discarded them immediately, finding something else that interested him to Herman's right, slowly leaning around Herman's bulk.

"Am I in the way?"

"Nope, just workin' the hall," Swifty smiled. "So tell me how soon you need this published and what you're looking to accomplish."

Herman explained some more about DARPA and their mission to develop advanced weaponry. He explained about the TRO. When he got into more detail about the chimeras, Swifty flicked his gaze back to Herman. But instead of commenting on the strange nature of hybrid soldiers he commented on the story's newsworthiness. "Sounds more like an Enquirer lead." He spread his hands and contributed a headline: "New World Police… Government Breeds Genetic Monsters."

"Our story's gotta go in the Wall Street Journal or the LA. Times" Herman insisted. "My investigator is missing and I need this played up big and legit so they won't do something stupid, like kill him. If I shine enough light on the case maybe they won't commit a high-profile murder."

Swifty buttered his bread, took a bite, then shot his cuffs. His links would have paid Herman's office rent for a month-rubies the size of a robin's eggs.

"Okay, hitting the high points then." Swifty recapped: "We wanna make it look like he was snatched because of this restraining order against DARPA. That somebody bagged this Jack Wirta character because he got wind of something big. We wanna make it look like maybe these DARPA cats are the ones who have the most to gain by grabbing your boy, but we can't prove it, so we can't exactly say they did it, but we imply it. Probably try and get that in the lead if we can." He took another bite. "And it has to go in a rag like the Journal or the L.A. Times?'

"Exactly."

"And you need this when?"

"The morning paper. Time is everything here."

"Jesus. Aside from the fact that the chimpanzee-clone thing sounds like silly putty, they put the Times to bed in an hour. They usually keep some holes open in Sports and Metro for late scores and hot breaking stuff, but, shit."

"That's why I came to the best."

"Never ass-kiss an ass-kisser," Swifty admonished sternly, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number from memory. "Go ahead and order. They know what I want."

He asked for somebody named Leon at the Times Metro section. "I need something planted, Bubee," he cooed once he got him on the phone. "Above the fold… with a picture." While he talked he glanced at Herman and motioned to the menu. Herman picked it up and tried to read, but he wasn't hungry-he was too worried to eat.

"You bet," Swifty said, then dropped his voice to a confidential whisper and went into his pitch. "Since I owe you one, you get this first. My gift. When you accept the Peabody just remember to mention me at the ceremony." He turned his twinkling eyes back to Herman and shrugged impishly. Then he continued: "It's a fantastic legal action taking place in Federal Courtroom Sixteen downtown. It involves top government security, DARPA commandos, missing government secrets, the disappearance and probable kidnapping of a private investigator, illegal genetic engineering, a secret government weapons team… and, get this, bubala: the movie rights are still available. You write it, Leon, you're in first position." He listened, wrinkled up his nose, and then shook his head. "Why give those pricks the Pulitzer? This is my gift to you, boychick… and I swear it's righteous. I can back up every word, every scintilla. Every participle and modifier is emes." A moment of listening, then, "Credibility is my middle name, babe. This is public record. The TRO is in federal court. Go down there tomorrow and see for yourself. I never lie." Another pause while Swifty pulled his happy countenance into a frown. "Come on…no fair. He thought his ex-wife was balling his trainer." He listened to Leon for at least a minute more before the smile returned. "Okay, I'll scribble up the release and get it over to you with the artwork in…" He looked at Herman, then pointed at his twenty-thousand-dollar Carrier watch.