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‘I’m sure. Did Miss Benoni offer any explanation for this unexpected largesse?’

‘She said I was supposed to keep quiet about what I had seen.’

‘And where was the President when Miss Benoni gave you this money?’

‘He was still on the couch.’

‘In the same room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just a few feet away?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Jeffers,’ Helen de Vries said. She turned to Vernon Moberley. ‘Mr. Chairman, may I suggest that we recess now, so that both I and my honorable friends can consider what further questions we may have for Mr. Jeffers on Monday?’

Moberley looked across at Angela Moran.

‘Mr. Chairman, may I have a moment to confer with my colleagues?’ Angela asked.

‘By all means.’

Angela turned to Dick Stinson, a young up-and-coming congressman from California who had made a name for himself as a trial lawyer before being elected to the House. They spoke in whispered tones.

‘Does this seem strange to you?’ Angela asked.

‘It’s beyond strange. How come de Vries was able to do that perfect direct examination without prior warning?’

‘Right. What should we do? Get out of here and figure out what to do over the weekend?’

‘Let me get a couple of digs in now,’ Stinson suggested, ‘just to let the press know we’re still in the game. Just to give them something to think about.’

Angela nodded.

‘Mr. Chairman, I ask to yield one minute of my time to the Honorable Gentleman from California, after which I would be content to recess for the weekend.’

‘So ordered,’ Moberley said obligingly.

‘Thank you, Mr. Chairman,’ Stinson began. ‘Mr. Jeffers, you say you accepted three hundred dollars from Miss Benoni, is that right?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And in return for that three hundred dollars, you were to keep quiet about what you say you saw. Is that also right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you must not feel too good about yourself today?’

Jeffers hesitated. The sweat on his forehead was building up. His entire shirt was sticking to his body. Had Selvey told him how to answer this question? It sounded familiar, but somehow he could not quite remember.

‘I don’t understand the question,’ he ventured lamely.

‘Well,’ Stinson continued, ‘you haven’t kept quiet about it, have you?’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘What persuaded you to speak out, Mr. Jeffers?’

The sweat was now dripping into his eyes, making it difficult to focus. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes and brow.

‘I suppose I thought it was the right thing to do.’

‘Really?’ Stinson said. ‘I don’t suppose, by any chance, that you were offered something, perhaps more than three hundred dollars, to change your mind?’

Jeffers almost choked. The room had gone completely silent.

‘No. Of course not. I just thought it was…’

His voice trailed away.

Stinson made sure the whole room saw his look of disgust.

‘Well, let me just ask you this, Mr. Jeffers, just so the record is clear. Is it your testimony under oath before this House Intelligence Committee that you have not accepted any money or consideration associated with your testimony, other than the three hundred dollars you received from Miss Benoni? Is that your testimony?’

‘Yes,’ Jeffers replied, almost inaudibly.

‘I can’t hear, Mr. Jeffers,’ Vernon Moberley intervened. ‘What was your answer?’

Jeffers swallowed hard. ‘I said ‘yes’,’ he replied, only a little more loudly.

Stinson nodded briefly and sat back in his chair.

‘I yield back any balance of my time to the minority Chair,’ he said.

Helen de Vries contemplated asking the Chair for a little more time to have the last word, but Jeffers’ manner persuaded her not to do so. Everything was fine, she told herself. The testimony of Harold Jeffers had been heard, and would be headline news on every television channel and every radio station that night, and in every newspaper the following morning.

However, having been affected more than she would have cared to admit by the earlier events of the day, she also suggested to the Chairman that, in the light of Jeffers’ testimony, there would be little purpose in any further questioning of Linda Samuels. She made a motion that Agent Samuels be released from custody, without prejudice to the finding that she was in contempt of the Committee. A vote was taken, and the motion was agreed to unanimously. Then the Committee recessed for the weekend.

B
Y
THE
TIME
Harold Philby and Mary Sullivan had watched the highlights of the House Intelligence Committee’s proceedings, which Irene had recorded for them during the day, it was after two o’clock in the morning. They were both very tired. Cold remains of a pepperoni pizza and plastic cups of cold black coffee competed for space on the conference room table with the stacks of paper which now comprised Mary’s research on Hamid Marfrela. Irene had eagerly offered to sit up with them but, to her disappointment, Harold Philby had thanked her for her work and sent her home. There were matters he had to discuss with Mary Sullivan which were not for Irene’s ears.

‘It’s hard to believe the Committee hasn’t cottoned on to the Oregon angle,’ Philby remarked. ‘Do you think they really don’t know about it?’

‘Apparently,’ Mary replied. ‘I would have expected some questions to Lazenby about it if they did.’

‘So would I,’ Philby agreed.

‘Maybe they have a surprise witness next week.’

‘Maybe. It’s still strange that they didn’t raise it with Lazenby. And they had that other agent who worked on the Marfrela murder, what was her name?’

Mary consulted her notes. ‘Kelly Smith.’

‘Smith, right. It just doesn’t add up.’

‘Well, add up or not, I’m falling asleep,’ Mary admitted, leaning back in her chair. ‘Let’s go home for the weekend and think about it. I’ll have my phone on if you want to give me a call.’

Philby shook his head.

‘We need to stay a few minutes longer, Mary,’ he said. ‘We have to decide what to do with this.’

Mary yawned. ‘I thought we already decided,’ she said. ‘I thought the only question was how we write it.’

Philby nodded.

‘The Committee has decided that for us, hasn’t it? We started out with three possible stories, remember? But now, we know what the story is. Or at least, we think we do. But we have some facts the Committee apparently doesn’t have, facts which could take this thing in a new direction. So we’re back to square one. The question is, do we publish?’

‘That’s a no-brainer, Harold,’ Mary replied emphatically. ‘Of course we publish. But I want to take the weekend to think through how to actually write it.’

‘The owners and the lawyers have something to say about this,’ Philby said. ‘So far, you’re the only one to make the connection between Hamid Marfrela and Oregon. That’s something the Committee might want to investigate if we tip them off about it.’

Mary turned to face the Editor.

‘I don’t know why we wouldn’t publish. It’s a legitimate story.’

‘It is.’ Philby agreed. ‘And, as far as I can see, the President is buried up to his neck in this mess. Still, it’s quite a rock to throw at him.’

‘We’re not throwing rocks.’ Mary protested. ‘And, if we don’t publish, it’s only a matter of time before someone else does. The competition can’t be more than a couple of steps behind us. I want to be first, Harold. This is my story.’

‘I understand that, Mary,’ Philby said, walking over to the window and looking out at the sodium lights which illuminated night-time Washington. ‘And I enjoy a scoop as much as anyone else in our business. But this is going to cause major shock waves. Who knows what might happen? In its own way, it may turn out to be as momentous as Watergate.’

He turned back towards Mary.

‘I was the office boy when that broke,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’d been with the
Post
less than a month. It was an incredible introduction to journalism, Mary. Woodward and Bernstein burning up the front pages, bringing down the Administration, and risking bringing the
Post
down with it. Everyone, from Katharine Graham down, running around, holding conspiratorial meetings behind closed doors all day and all night.’

Mary was smiling broadly.

‘It must have been fantastic,’ she said.

‘It was. Of course, I wasn’t in on the big secrets. I was just a kid. I made the coffee and tried to listen through doors. But I do remember the atmosphere in this place, all the coming and going, the air of conspiracy. And I remember a lot of talk at that time about what would happen if the story didn’t fly. The conventional wisdom was that it would be the end of the
Post
.’

Mary nodded thoughtfully.

‘I could see that happening with this story. But this time, it would be on my watch. If we’re wrong, Wade will eat us for lunch.’

Mary got up and walked over to join Philby at the window without her shoes, which she had abandoned some hours before.

‘Harold, Wade isn’t in any position to eat anyone for lunch. The Committee has him nailed. The only question is what they decide to do with the information. All we’re doing is putting one of the last pieces of the puzzle in place, a piece which the Committee apparently isn’t aware of.’

‘They’ll be aware of it when we publish. And you may be their next star witness.’

‘Fine with me. The story is solid, Harold. We have paperwork to back it up every inch of the way.’

‘What about your source?’

‘I’ll protect him, of course. But I don’t see that as a problem. He needn’t come into it. We can make our case with the research we’ve done ourselves.’

Philby nodded thoughtfully and turned back to the window.

‘What about Irene?’

‘I’m going to credit her with an assist,’ Mary smiled, ‘in addition to her A-plus.’

‘You’re putting her on the byline? That’s generous.’ Philby observed.

‘It’s deserved. She found the Western Geophysical material, and she worked her tail off on Marfrela. I think we ought to take a serious look at her when she gets out of school.’

‘I have no problem with that. But I’m concerned. Are you sure she’s not vulnerable…, she’s not…?’

‘My source? No way, Harold. She has no idea who he is. Come on, you know me better than that.’

‘I’m sorry, but in this situation I’m paranoid. I admit it. We can’t leave any hostages to fortune here, Mary.’

‘Agreed,’ Mary said, ‘and we’re not going to.’

For some time, they both stared out of the window in silence.

‘So, have you thought what you’re going to recommend?’ Mary asked.

‘Have you ever been to Portugal?’ Philby asked in turn.

‘Portugal? No. Never. Why?’

‘It’s where Becky and I plan to retire. Beautiful country. The people are wonderful, the food is out of this world. Paradise on earth. A simpler way of life.’

Mary smiled. ‘I didn’t know you were planning to retire.’

Philby returned the smile. ‘I may have to. We publish on Monday.’

Mary’s jaw dropped open. For a moment she could not speak.

‘Monday? But…’

‘But what? I thought you wanted to go ahead.’

‘Well… yes… yes, I do. But… Harold, you old fox, you’ve already done it, haven’t you? You’ve already run this by the owners without telling me?’

Philby could not resist a broad smile.

‘Guilty, Your Honor.’

‘You swine,’ Mary grinned. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Philby replied. ‘It was their preference. They wanted to keep quiet about it. But only until tonight. They wanted to wait and see what emerged in the Committee today. But they said it was up to me. If the Oregon story didn’t come out, I should feel free to bring it out. It’s to be my decision, they said. By which they meant, of course, that my head is on the chopping block if it goes south.’

Mary sat back down at the conference table, trying to catch her breath.

‘Harold, we have to give the White House time to respond.’

Philby’s eyes had hardened.

‘I’ll call Martha tomorrow,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It won’t do them any harm to put in a little overtime over the weekend. We know what they’re going to say in any case.’

Mary raised her eyebrows.

‘Mary, the White House has been screwing around with us ever since this thing started. And not just with us, but with the American people. One lie after another. It’s inexcusable. I don’t blame Martha. I think this is coming directly from His Majesty. But enough is enough. We’re going to bring this out into the open, and let the chips fall where they may. Polish your story, Mary. Now, let’s get out of here before I change my mind.’

W
ITHOUT
MAKE-UP,
her hair all over the place, Kelly ran at full speed from the elevator into Ted Lazenby’s office. She had driven desperately from her home to the Hoover Building in what should have been an impossibly short time, ignoring red lights and speed limits, but mercifully attracting no attention from the traffic cops. It was six o’clock on a cold, rainy Monday morning, and Lazenby was already at his desk, the telephone in his hand. His jacket was off, and his tie was hanging loosely around his neck. He was on hold.

‘Did you see…?’ Kelly began.

‘Yes. I saw it. I’m on the line to the Portland field office now. They’re trying to track Phil down. They’re not sure where he is.’

‘Sir, what happened?’

‘That bastard, Moberley. That fucking bastard. He gave me his fucking word. I’m going to crucify the son-of-a-bitch.’

Lazenby shook his head violently, and held out the phone.

‘Take over this line for me. It’s our people in Oregon. I have another call to make.’

Kelly studied the Director’s face. She had never seen him so angry. He was pale and tense and, when he spoke, he almost spat out the words. Throwing her briefcase to the floor, she took the telephone from his hand and sat down at his desk, while Lazenby strode to a table and picked up another phone. He consulted a private directory and quickly dialed a number. Someone answered.

‘Mrs. Moberley? This is Ted Lazenby… Lazenby… I’m the Director of the FBI… I’m fine, thank you. Is your husband there?… Well, would you get him for me, please?… He’s doing what?… Ma’am, I frankly don’t give a damn what he’s doing. This is an emergency. Please get him now… Thank you.’