Free Mercury Falls by Robert Kroese Page B

from the reporter's mouth weren't enough for Christine to decipher, French words also began to scroll across the bottom of the screen. Every third word was familiar to her, but she didn't have time to piece them together before they scrolled off the screen. It was like being in the reception line at a college roommate's wedding. She gathered, after several feverish minutes of deduction, that there was some sort of war going on.
    What she did not see or hear was any reference to the death of General Isaacson. If the clock on the nightstand was to be believed, she had been out for over four hours. Long enough for the news media to have found out about Isaacson. Even the French news media.
    Had Isaacson made it out alive? That seemed very unlikely. She had seen him crushed under a massive pile of concrete. At the very least, he was very badly injured. Something like that would have made the news.
    The sound of her cell phone's ring broke the melodious stream of meaningless syllables emanating from the television. Christine found it in her purse beside the bed. The display read, "Harry."
    She pressed a button and grunted into the phone.
    "Christine?" said Harry. "Are you OK? I got a call from a hospital in Tel Aviv. Who is that with you?"
    "Nobody. French reporter on TV."
    "You speak French? What's he saying?"
    " Je ne sais quoi ," Christine said, pressing MUTE on the remote control. The reporter, whom Christine had begun to think of as Pierre Gabrielle , continued to motion energetically over his shoulder, as if he were juggling. Christine wondered if the MUTE button on French remote controls was labeled MIME.
    "So you're OK?" asked Harry.
    "Considering that I recently inhaled about half a house, yes," said Christine.
    "They told me what happened," Harry said. More quietly, he added, "Isaacson's people."
    "So Isaacson is d—"
    "Shh!" Harry whispered. "They're keeping it under wraps for now. At least until they've assessed the damage. They don't want to embolden the Syrians."
    "But we're going to report it," said Christine, trying to avoid making her statement into a question. "We have to report it."
    "We will," said Harry. "Soon. The Israelis just need a chance to get a handle on things. This sort of event can act as a catalyst, provoking more violence. We need to make sure—"
    "Harry," Christine interjected, sensing once again that there was something Harry wasn't telling her. "What is this about? We don't work for the Israelis. We're a news magazine. If I'm going to risk my life getting the last interview. . ." She was seized by a sudden coughing fit.
    "Don't worry, Christine," Harry said once the coughing had subsided a bit. "The Israelis have asked for a couple of days. We can still make next week's deadline. It might leak to the news channels before then, but we'll be the only print magazine with the story. Fax your notes over, and I'll have Maria start on it right away."
    "My notes," rasped Christine, who was starting to realize what a terrible reporter she actually was. "Right."
    "You do have notes?" asked Harry. "From your interview with Isaacson?"
    "Well, I have a pretty good opening line."
    "Which is?"
    Christine cleared her throat as if preparing to read from her notes. "Holy shit," she pretended to read. "It's a fucking rocket ."
    "Christine," said Harry flatly.
    "Of course," continued Christine, "we'll have to tidy it a bit for general consumption."
    "Fine," said Harry. "Don't worry about it. We don't need much more than a headline anyway. Something terse, like 'Sudden Death on the Syrian Border.' But not that, of course. Something more tasteful."
    "How about 'General Mayhem on the Syrian Border?'" Christine offered.
    Harry, choosing not to acknowledge her suggestion, went on, "We'll do some generic pictures of devastation and work up a retrospective on Isaacson. We can do a first-person essay about what it was like to be with him in his last moments. What was it like, by the way?"
    "Frankly," said Christine, "it