The Pelican Brief (31 page)

“Well, it’s a big firm,” Gray said by the door. “Sorry to bother.”

Underwood was following. “Look, Mr. Grantham, we’re not accustomed to reporters barging in around here. I’ll call security, and maybe they can help you.”

“Won’t be necessary. Thanks.” Grantham was in the hall and gone. Underwood reported to security.

Grantham cursed himself in the elevator. It was empty except for him, and he cursed out loud. Then he thought of Croft, and was cursing him when the elevator landed and opened, and there was Croft in the lobby near the pay phones. Cool it, he told himself.

They left the building together. “Didn’t work,” Gray said.

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yep. Wrong man.”

“Dammit. I knew it was him. It was the kid in the photos, wasn’t it?”

“No. Close but no cigar. Keep trying.”

“I’m really tired of this, Grantham. I’ve—”

“You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Do it for one more week, okay? I can think of harder work.”

Croft stopped on the sidewalk, and Gray kept walking. “One more week, and I’m through,” Croft yelled to him. Grantham waved him off.

He unlocked the illegally parked Volvo and sped back to the
Post
. It was not a smart move. It was quite stupid, and he was much too experienced for such a mistake. He would omit it from his daily chat with Jackson Feldman and Smith Keen.

________

Feldman was looking for him, another reporter said, and he walked quickly to his office. He smiled sweetly to the secretary, who was poised to attack. Keen and Howard Krauthammer, the managing editor, were waiting with Feldman. Keen closed the door and handed Gray a newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

It was the New Orleans paper, the
Times-Picayune
, and the front-page story was about the deaths of Verheek and Callahan, along with big photos. He read it quickly while they watched him. It talked about their friendship, and their strange deaths just six days apart. And it mentioned Darby Shaw, who had disappeared. But no link to the brief.

“I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Feldman said.

“It’s nothing but the basics,” Gray said. “We could’ve run this three days ago.”

“Why didn’t we?” asked Krauthammer.

“There’s nothing here. It’s two dead bodies, the name of the girl, and a thousand questions, none of which they answered. They’ve found a cop who’ll talk, but he knows nothing beyond the blood and gore.”

“But they’re digging, Gray,” Keen said.

“You want me to stop them?”

“The
Times
has picked it up,” Feldman said. “They’re running something tomorrow or Sunday. How much can they know?”

“Why ask me? Look, it’s possible they have a copy of the brief. Very unlikely, but possible. But they haven’t talked to the girl. We’ve got the girl, okay. She’s ours.”

“We hope,” said Krauthammer.

Feldman rubbed his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Let’s say they have a copy of the brief, and that they know she wrote it, and now she’s vanished. They can’t verify it right now, but they’re not afraid to mention the brief without naming Mattiece. Let’s say they know Callahan was her professor, among other things, and that he brought the brief here and gave it
to his good friend Verheek. And now they’re dead and she’s on the run. That’s a pretty damned good story, wouldn’t you say, Gray?”

“It’s a big story,” Krauthammer said.

“It’s peanuts compared to what’s coming,” Gray said. “I don’t want to run it because it’s the tip of the iceberg, and it’ll attract every paper in the country. We don’t need a thousand reporters bumping into each other.”

“I say we run it,” Krauthammer said. “If not, the
Times
will beat our ass with it.”

“We can’t run the story,” Gray said.

“Why not?” asked Krauthammer.

“Because I’m not going to write it, and if it’s written by someone else here, then we lose the girl. It’s that simple. She’s debating right now about whether to jump on a plane and leave the country, and one mistake by us and she’s gone.”

“But she’s already spilled her guts,” Keen said.

“I gave her my word, okay. I will not write the story until it’s pieced together and Mattiece can be named. It’s very simple.”

“You’re using her, aren’t you?” Keen asked.

“She’s a source. But she’s not in the city.”

“If the
Times
has the brief, then they know about Mattiece,” Feldman said. “And if they know about Mattiece, you can bet they’re digging like hell to verify it. What if they beat us?”

Krauthammer grunted in disgust. “We’re going to sit on our asses and lose the biggest story I’ve seen in twenty years. I say we run what we’ve got. It’s just the surface, but it’s a helluva story right now.”

“No,” Gray said. “I won’t write it until I have all of it.”

“And how long might that take?” Feldman asked.

“A week, maybe.”

“We don’t have a week,” Krauthammer said.

Gray was desperate. “I can find out how much the
Times
knows. Give me forty-eight hours.”

“They’re running something tomorrow or Sunday,” Feldman said again.

“Let ’em run it. I’ll bet money it’ll be the same story with probably the same mug shots. You guys are assuming a hell of a lot. You’re assuming they’ve got a copy of the brief, but its author doesn’t have a copy of it. We don’t have a copy of it. Let’s wait, and read their little story, then go from there.”

The editors studied each other. Krauthammer was frustrated. Keen was anxious. But the boss was Feldman, and he said, “Okay. If they run something in the morning, we’ll meet here at noon and look at it.”

“Fine,” Gray said quickly and reached for the door.

“You’d better move fast, Grantham,” Feldman said. “We can’t sit on this much longer.”

Grantham was gone.

33
________

THE LIMOUSINE moved patiently in the Beltway rush hour. It was dark, and Matthew Barr read with the aid of a reading light in the ceiling. Coal sipped Perrier and watched the traffic. He had the brief memorized, and could have simply explained it to Barr, but he wanted to watch his reaction.

Barr had no reaction until he got to the photograph, then slowly shook his head. He laid it on the seat, and thought about it for a moment. “Very nasty,” he said.

Coal grunted.

“How true is it?” Barr asked.

“I’d love to know.”

“When did you first see it?”

“Tuesday of last week. It came over from the FBI in one of their daily reports.”

“What’d the President say?”

“He was not that happy with it, but there was no cause for alarm. It’s just another wild shot in the dark, we thought. He talked to Voyles about it, and Voyles agreed to leave it alone for a while. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Did the President ask Voyles to back off?” Barr asked the question slowly.

“Yes.”

“That’s awfully close to obstruction of justice, assuming of course the brief turns out to be true.”

“And what if it’s true?”

“Then the President has problems. I’ve got one conviction for obstruction, so I’ve been there. It’s like mail fraud. It’s broad and wide and fairly easy to prove. Were you in on it?”

“What do you think?”

“Then I think you’ve got problems too.”

They rode in silence and watched the traffic. Coal had thought through the obstruction angle, but he wanted Barr’s opinion. He wasn’t worried about criminal charges. The President had one brief little chat with Voyles, asked him to look elsewhere for the time being, and that was it. Hardly the work of felons. But Coal was terribly concerned with reelection, and a scandal involving a major contributor like Mattiece would be devastating. The thought was sickening—a man the President knew and took millions from paid money to have two Supreme Court Justices knocked off so his pal the President could appoint more reasonable men to the bench so that the oil could be harvested. The Democrats would fall in the streets howling with glee. Every subcommittee in Congress would hold hearings. Every newspaper would run it every day for a year. The Justice Department would be forced to investigate. Coal would be forced to take the blame and resign. Hell, everyone in the White House, except the President, would have to go.

It was a nightmare of horrific proportions.

“We’ve got to find out if the brief is true,” Coal said to the window.

“If people are dying, then it’s true. Give me a better reason for killing Callahan and Verheek.”

There was no other reason, and Coal knew it. “I want you to do something.”

“Find the girl.”

“No. She’s either dead or hiding in a cave somewhere. I want you to talk to Mattiece.”

“I’m sure he’s in the yellow pages.”

“You can find him. We need to establish a link that the President knows nothing about. We need to first determine how much of this is true.”

“And you think Victor will take me into his confidence and tell me his secrets.”

“Yes, eventually. You’re not a cop, remember. Assume it’s true, and he thinks he’s about to be exposed. He’s desperate and he’s killing people. What if you told him the press had the story and the end was near, and if he is inclined to disappear, then now’s the time? You’re coming to him from Washington, remember? From the inside. From the President, or so he thinks. He’ll listen to you.”

“Okay. What if he tells me it’s true? What’s in it for us?”

“I’ve got some ideas, all in the category of damage control. The first thing we’ll do is immediately appoint two nature lovers to the Court. I mean, wild-eyed radical bird watchers. It would show that down deep we’re good little environmentalists. And it would kill Mattiece and his oil field, etc. We could do this in a matter of hours. Almost simultaneously, the
President will call in Voyles and the Attorney General and Justice and demand an immediate investigation into Mattiece. We’ll leak copies of the brief to every reporter in town, then hunker down and ride out the storm.”

Barr was smiling with admiration.

Coal continued. “It won’t be pretty, but it’s far better than sitting back and hoping the brief is a work of fiction.”

“How do you explain that photograph?”

“You can’t. It’ll hurt for a while, but it was seven years ago, and people go crazy. We’ll portray Mattiece as a good citizen back then, but now he’s a madman.”

“He is a madman.”

“Yes, he is. And right now he’s like a wounded dog backed in a corner. You must convince him to throw in the towel, and haul ass. I think he’ll listen to you. And I think we’ll find out from him if it’s true.”

“So how do I find him?”

“I’ve got a man working on that. I’ll pull some strings, and make a contact. Be ready to go on Sunday.”

Barr smiled to the window. He would like to meet Mattiece.

The traffic slowed. Coal slowly sipped his water. “Any thing on Grantham?”

“Not really. We’re listening and watching, but nothing exciting. He talks to his mother and a couple of gals, but nothing worth reporting. He works a lot. He left town Wednesday and returned Thursday.”

“Where did he go?”

“New York. Probably working on some story.”

________

Cleve was supposed to be at the corner of Rhode Island and Sixth at exactly 10 P.M., but he wasn’t. Gray was supposed to race down Rhode Island until Cleve caught him, so that if anyone was indeed following him they would think he was simply a dangerous driver. He raced down Rhode Island, through Sixth at fifty miles per hour, and watched for blue lights. There were none. He looped around, and fifteen minutes later barreled down Rhode Island again. There! He saw blue lights and pulled to the curb.

It was not Cleve. It was a white cop who was very agitated. He jerked Gray’s license, examined it, and asked if he’d been drinking. No sir, he said. The cop wrote the ticket, and proudly handed it to Gray, who sat behind the wheel staring at the ticket until he heard voices coming from the rear bumper.

Another cop was on the scene, and they were arguing. It was Cleve, and he wanted the white cop to forget the ticket, but the white cop explained it had already been written and besides the idiot was doing fifty-six miles an hour through the intersection. He’s a friend, Cleve said. Then teach him how to drive before he kills somebody, the white cop said as he got in his patrol car and drove away.

Cleve was snickering as he looked in Gray’s window. “Sorry about that,” he said with a smile.

“It’s all your fault.”

“Slow it down next time.”

Gray threw the ticket on the floorboard. “Let’s talk quick. You said Sarge said the boys in the West Wing are talking about me. Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, I need to know from Sarge if they’re talking about any other reporters, especially from the
New York Times
. I need to know if they think anybody else is hot on the story.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. I need it quick.”

“Slow it down,” Cleve said loudly and walked to his car.

________

Darby paid for the room for the next seven days, in part because she wanted a familiar place to return to if necessary, and in part because she wanted to leave some new clothes she had purchased. It was sinful, this running and leaving everything behind. The clothes were nothing fancy, sort of upscale safari law school, but they cost even more in New York, and it would be nice to keep them. She would not take risks over clothes, but she liked the room and she liked the city and she wanted the clothes.

It was time to run again, and she would travel light. She carried a small canvas bag when she darted from the St. Moritz into a waiting cab. It was almost 11 P.M., Friday, and Central Park South was busy. Across the street, a line of horses and carriages waited for customers and brief excursions through the park.

The cab took ten minutes to get to Seventy-second and Broadway, which was the wrong direction, but this entire journey should be hard to follow. She walked thirty feet, and disappeared into the subway. She had studied a map and a book of the system, and she hoped it would be easy. The subway was not appealing
because she’d never used it and she’d heard the stories. But this was the Broadway line, the most commonly used train in Manhattan, and it was rumored to be safe, at times. And things weren’t so swell above the ground. The subway could hardly be worse.