LITMIR.BIZ

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      I do enjoy seeing Paul dealing with his children, though that business with the middle boy was troubling – I never got to meet him. I wish I had known them better. His ex is probably still poisoning the well, though at the funeral the girl was pleasant enough and Peter greeted me with what looked for all the world like affection.

      I wonder what Jonathan’s up to. As they say, no news is no news.

      * * * * * * *

      ONE MORNING ED REYNOLDS PAID ME A VISIT, back for one of Harlan Kenny’s unloved seminars. Still based in Bangkok, Ed had been on overload the last six months. Khymer Rouge, Boat People, and in mid-February the brief and bloody Chinese incursion into Vietnam. I treated Ed to lunch in the cafeteria and we caught up. He had nice things to say about the oil series. I remarked that we hadn’t seen each other for some time.

      “I’ve been here,” he said, “it seems you’re always on the road.”

      “That is true,” I replied. “There is a lot of that.”

      “You have plans for tonight? A guy I know just came out with a book, there’s a little celebration. Thought you might be interested in meeting him.”

      “Sure. Who is it?”

      “Dave Halberstam. Friend of mine from Vietnam.”

      That took all of a micro-second. Formerly of the Times, Pulitzer Prize for war reporting, author of The Best and the Brightest, a masterly account of how we got into Vietnam. Luckily I kept a suit and a clean shirt in my locker and found a suitable tie in my desk. This would be several cuts above my usual sport coats and corduroys. Ed whirled by at seven-thirty and we caught a cab to a steak house near Lincoln Center favored by newspaper men. A couple dozen people were standing around, drinks in hand. I recognized Halberstam – tall and lanky, horn-rimmed glasses.

      At this point I offer a confession. Mid-afternoon I blasted out and picked up a copy of Halberstam’s book. I’m a pretty fast reader and for an hour I skimmed its 771 pages. Luce’s Time empire, the Grahams’ Washington Post, the Chandlers’ L.A. Times, Paley’s CBS. I knew a fair amount about the first three but the television sections really drew me in. Later I’d have to reread them carefully.

      “Dave! Congratulations! How the hell are you!” Reynolds put his arms around Halberstam and they gave each other a bear hug.

      “Reynolds, you old bastard! Still in Thailand? Why don’t you get a real job?”

      “Nobody’s hiring. But hey, when you love what you do, you stay with it.” Reynolds gestured toward me. “Meet a Gazette colleague, Paul Bernard. He’s our energy guru. You’ve probably seen his work.”

      “You did that series on the oil industry. Nice piece of work.”

      “Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand, “a pleasure.”

      “Paul and I met in Saigon. He was with the grand army of our republic.”

      Halberstam continued shaking my hand. “Sorry about that. Looks like you made it back okay, anyway.”

      “Pretty much,” I replied. “Wish I’d seen your book before I went there.”

      “A number of vets have told me that. A good part of it was in the Times day-to-day, not all the detail, of course.”

      We talked until Halberstam was spirited away. At dinner I introduced myself around the table. On my other side was a youngish guy with a down-under drawl, name of Harry Firth, said he was with the Latimer Television Network.

      “Does LTN get much play in Halberstam’s book?” I asked.

      “We’re too new. But when he updates it we’ll be in there. No account of American television will be complete without LTN.”

      “You people have a high opinion of yourselves.”

      “Absolutely.”

      “And your boss is quite the character.”

      “What people fail to grasp is he’s one of the smartest people you’ll ever meet.”

      Rudolph Latimer’s story has been well chronicled. Flamboyant New Zealander, owner of newspapers, magazines, radio and television stations on every continent. Fiercely competitive with that other down-under media baron, though some called him a Murdoch wannabee. To position himself for U.S. television Latimer became a naturalized citizen, then proceeded to snap up TV stations including New York’s Channel Twelve, cobbling together what he called the Latimer Television Network. From modest circumstances, he had married up, then parlayed his wife’s fortune into a successful trucking empire before catching the newspaper bug. One of the world’s wealthiest men, a restless, demanding figure, his business ethics or lack thereof often landed him on his competitors’ front pages. Prolific spender on conservative causes, he had a plaque in his office, I’d seen a photo of it once – FOR ATTILA, LOOK LEFT.

      “He couldn’t have accomplished all he has without smarts,” I said.

      “Of course, his smartest play is to surround himself with good people. Like myself,” Firth said, laughing.

      “Did he bring you from New Zealand?”

      “In a manner of speaking.” He took a large sip of wine. “I’m his nephew.”

      “Nepotism at its finest.”

      “Whatever it takes. Actually I’ve worked for Rudolph for fifteen years. Started in Auckland, then London, now New York. He believes in working your way up. Or out.”

      “What do you do for them now?”

      “I produce the Channel Twelve late-night news.”

      Interesting. “I took a quick look through Halberstam’s book. The stuff about television is fascinating.”

      “And what do you do?”

      “I’m with the Gazette. The energy beat the last few years, oil issues particularly.”

      “The oil exposé, that was yours?”

      “Yes. More recently I did Three Mile Island.”

      “Mr. Latimer commented on the oil story.” He took another sip of wine. “You know, you’re good looking, you present yourself well, your voice is passable, have you ever thought of TV news? Maybe you could give Roy Williams a run for his money.” Williams was LTN’s prime-time anchorman, a good if rather stuffy newsman.

      “After the oil story I was on some interview shows. That’s pretty much it.”

      “Give me a call sometime.” He reached for his card. I traded him mine.

      “Thanks. Maybe I will.”

      The next evening when I returned home I showed the card to Diane. “I sat next to this guy at dinner last night. He practically offered me a job.”

      She turned the card over. “Latimer. He’s very right-wing, nobody you’d be comfortable with. Though my father thinks well of him.”

      “Why does that not surprise me?”

      THE MIDDLE EAST SITUATION continued to give us fits. In August, Jimmy Carter fired his U.N. Ambassador. Andrew Young had angered American Jewish leaders for calling Israel “stubborn and intransigent.” When he met secretly with representatives of the PLO, Carter cut him loose. Then there was Iran. Given the hostility from our support of the Shah, some sort of reprisal was probably inevitable. In the months following his takeover Khomeini and the U.S. traded barbs, then in October, against State Department advice Carter permitted the Shah to enter the U.S. for treatment of his cancer. Khomeini demanded the U.S. return him to Iran for trial. Anti-Americanism surged as revolutionary elements charged that the U.S. was plotting a repeat of 1953. On November 4, several hundred militant students broke through our embassy’s gates, overran security and captured the building, parading their hostages in

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