Air Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page A

everyone wants to fight, I’ll fight.
    Franklin’s face evolves from surprise to concern. “Charlotte, are you okay?” he whispers. He reaches out and touches my shoulder. “The sunglasses? And you look, uh, tired. And as for the paper bag thing—we always discuss story strategy. I’m just brainstorming. You know? What’s up with you today?”
    Leaning against the brass railing of the elevator, I try to figure out how to answer him. The car slowly carries us past floor 5 to 6, and then to 7. I press my lips together, realizing how close to tears I am. And Franklin’s gesture, his offer of comfort, pushes me even closer. Glancing at the elevator buttons, I measure our progress to the top. Eight floors to pull myself together.
    “Yeah, Franko, I’m sorry,” I say softly. “Josh and I had a fight. A downright real fight. And he left, went home. At about one in the morning.”
    Seven, six floors to go.
    “You’ll see each other tonight, as usual, right?” Franklin interrupts, gently. “And you can talk it out.”
    Five, four.
    I sigh, briefly considering whether he might be right. I feel a flutter of hope attempt to break through to the surface. Franklin and Stephen have what they call “tiffs,” I know. They even joke about it later. But I fear this is different. The wisp of hope evaporates, destroyed by reality.
    “I don’t think so,” I say. And with that, I recognize what I’m feeling. My heart is breaking.
    Two, one.
    And the door opens on the sixteenth floor. I struggle to manage a fragile smile, attempting to reassure Franklin that I’m tough. I’m a reporter. Don’t have to worry about me. And then I remember I haven’t even mentioned last night’s anonymous phone call. Too late now.
    I hitch my tote bag higher on my shoulder, but it catches on the shoulder flap of my new camel suede jacket and falls back into the crook of my elbow, yanking the sleeve out of shape. Now even my own purse is fighting me. I glare at it, then take a deep breath. Edward R. Murrow would not be defeated by a few emotional bumps in the road.
    “Let’s catch some bad guys, Franko,” I say. “It’s Emmy time.”
     
     
    “Profits? Two billion dollars a year. Maybe three.” FBI Special Agent in Charge Marren Lattimer is spewing stats, staccato, almost faster than Franklin and I can write them in our spiral notepads. I’ve got three pages covered already and we’ve only been here two minutes. “Terrorists make more money selling counterfeit than selling dope.”
    Lattimer’s as hard-nosed and craggy as a recruitingposter for the Marines. White shirt. Boring tie. His navy blazer falls open to reveal just a corner of under-the-shoulder holster.
    “Recognize this?” he asks, pointing to a framed photo on the wall. “They haven’t got all my stuff on the wall yet, just moved into the place of course. But I said, make sure this one goes up asap. Top priority. Keeps my eye on the target. So. Do you know where this is?”
    I look up from my notebook, examining the black-and-white poster-sized photograph hanging beside an array of eight-by-tens. Lattimer piloting a helicopter. A younger Lattimer, before the gray hair, with a former president. An even younger Lattimer, tallest in a group of crew-cutted young men and determined women, all holding diplomas. Lattimer posing in a leather bomber jacket, tough guy, with a huge machine gun. A stack of framed pieces, probably more Lattimer nostalgia, leans against the wall.
    “It’s, um…” The shot isn’t wide enough for instant context. Only the first floor is showing. I see smoke billowing from the front of a stone-and-glass building. Cops. TV cameras. I know it perfectly. But I hate pop quizzes.
    “World Trade Center, 1993,” Franklin answers.
    “Correct,” Lattimer says. “And how do you think those assholes—excuse me, Ms. McNally—how do you think that operation was financed? With the ill-gotten gains from counterfeit goods. Those women who think they’re