“I’d love to meet her.”
   “We’re going to St. Thomas during Thanksgiving. Why don’t you meet us there?”
   “Do I have to bring my wife?”
   “No. She’s not invited.”
   “Will she run around in a little string job on the beach? Sort of put on a show for us?”
   “Probably.”
   “Wow. I can’t believe this.”
   “You can get a condo next to us, and we’ll have a ball.”
   “Beautiful, beautiful. Just beautiful.”


   The phone rang four times, the answering machine clicked on, the recorded voice echoed through the apartment, the beep, then no message. It rang again four times, same routine, and no message. A minute later it rang again, and Gray Grantham grabbed it from bed. He sat on a pillow, trying to focus.
   “Who is it?” he asked in pain. There was no light coming through the window.
   The voice on the other end was low and timid. “Is this Gray Grantham with the Washington Post?”
   “It is. Who’s calling?”
   Slowly, “I can’t give you my name.”
   The fog lifted and he focused on the clock. It was five-forty. “Okay, forget the name. Why are you calling?”
   “I saw your story yesterday about the White House and the nominees.”
   “That’s good.” You and a million others. “Why are you calling me at this obscene hour?”
   “I’m sorry. I’m on my way to work and stopped at a pay phone. I can’t call from home or the office.”
   The voice was clear, articulate, and appeared to be intelligent. “What kind of office?”
   “I’m an attorney.”
   Great. Washington was home for half a million lawyers. “Private or government?”
   A slight hesitation. “Uh, I’d rather not say.”
   “Okay. Look, I’d rather be sleeping. Why, exactly, did you call?”
   “I may know something about Rosenberg and Jensen.”
   Grantham sat on the edge of the bed. “Such as—” A much longer pause. “Are you recording this?”
   “No. Should I?”
   “I don’t know. I’m really very scared and confused, Mr. Grantham. I prefer not to record this. Maybe the next call, okay?”
   “Whatever you want. I’m listening.”
   “Can this call be traced?”
   “Possibly, I guess. But you’re at a pay phone, right? What difference does it make?”
   “I don’t know. I’m just scared.”
   “It’s okay. I swear I’m not recording and I swear I won’t trace it. Now, what’s on your mind?”
   “Well, I think I may know who killed them.”
   Grantham was standing. “That’s some pretty valuable knowledge.”
   “It could get me killed. Do you think they’re following me?”
   “Who? Who would be following you?”
   “I don’t know.” The voice trailed off, as if he was looking over his shoulder.
   Grantham was pacing by the bed. “Relax. Why don’t you tell me your name, okay? I swear it’s confidential.”
   “Garcia.”
   “That’s not a real name, is it?”
   “Of course not, but it’s the best I can do.”
   “Okay, Garcia. Talk to me.”
   “I’m not certain, okay? But I think I stumbled across something at the office that I was not supposed to see.”
   “Do you have a copy of it?”
   “Maybe.”
   “Look, Garcia. You called me, right. Do you want to talk or not?”
   “I’m not sure. What will you do if I tell you something?”
   “Check it out thoroughly. If we’re gonna accuse someone of the assassinations of two Supreme Court Justices, believe me, the story will be handled delicately.” There was a very long silence. Grantham froze by the rocker and waited. “Garcia. Are you there?”
   “Yeah. Can we talk later?”
   “Of course. We can talk now.”
   “I need to think about this. I haven’t eaten or slept in a week, and I’m not thinking rationally. I might call you later.”
   “Okay, okay. That’s fine. You can call me at work at—”
   “No. I won’t call you at work. Sorry I woke you.” He hung up. Grantham looked at the row of numbers on his phone and punched seven digits, waited, then six more, then four more. He scribbled a number on a pad by the phone, and hung up. The pay phone was on Fifteenth Street in Pentagon City.


   Gavin Verheek slept four hours and woke up drunk. When he arrived at the Hoover Building an hour later, the alcohol was fading and the pain was settling in. He cursed himself and he cursed Callahan, who no doubt would sleep until noon and wake up fresh and alive and ready for the flight to New Orleans. They had left the restaurant when it closed at midnight, then hit a few bars and joked about catching a skin flick or two, but since their favorite movie house had been bombed they couldn’t. So they just drank until three or four.
   He had a meeting with Director Voyles at eleven, and it was imperative to appear sober and alert. It would be impossible. He told his secretary to close the door, and explained to her that he had caught a nasty virus, maybe the flu, and he was to be left alone at his desk unless it was awfully damned important. She studied his eyes and seemed to sniff more than usual. The smell of beer does not always evaporate with sleep.
   She left and closed the door behind her. He locked it. To make things equal, he called Callahan’s room, but no one answered.
   What a life. His best friend earned almost as much as he did, but worked thirty hours in a busy week, and had his pick of pliant young things twenty years his junior. Then he remembered their grand plans for the week in St. Thomas, and the thought of Darby strolling along the beach. He would go, even if it caused a divorce.
   A wave of nausea rippled through his chest and up his esophagus, and he quickly lay still on the floor. Cheap government carpet. He breathed deeply, and the pounding started at the top of his head. The plaster ceiling was not spinning, and this was encouraging. After three minutes, it was evident he would not vomit, at least not now.
   His briefcase was within reach, and he carefully slid it next to him. He found the envelope inside with the morning paper. He opened it, unfolded the brief, and held it with both hands six inches above his face.
   It was thirteen letter-sized pages of computer paper, all double-spaced with wide margins. He could handle it. Notes were scribbled in the margins by hand and whole sections were marked through. The words FIRST DRAFT were handwritten with a felt pen across the top. Her name, address, and phone number were typed on the cover sheet.
   He would skim it for a few minutes while he was on the floor, then hopefully he would feel like sitting at the desk and going through the motions of being an important government lawyer. He thought of Voyles, and the pounding intensified.
   She wrote well, in the standard, scholarly legal fashion of long sentences filled with large words. But she was clear. She avoided the double-talk and legal lingo most students strive so desperately for. She would never make it as an attorney employed by the United States Government.
   Gavin had never heard of her suspect, and was certain it was not on anyone’s list. Technically, it was not a brief, but more of a story about a lawsuit in Louisiana. She told the facts succinctly, and made them interesting. Fascinating, really. He was not skimming.
   The facts took four pages, then she filled the next three with brief histories of the parties. It dragged a bit here, but he kept reading. He was hooked. On page eight, the briefer whatever it was summarized the trial. On nine, it mentioned the appeal, and the final three pages laid an implausible trail to the removal of Rosenberg and Jensen from the Court. Callahan said she had already discarded this theory, and she appeared to lose steam at the end.
   But it was highly readable. For a moment he had forgotten his current state of pain, and read thirteen pages of a law student’s brief while lying on the floor on dirty carpet with a million things to do.
   There was a soft knock at the door. He slowly sat up, gingerly stood, and walked to the door. “Yes.”
   It was the secretary. “I hate to bother. But the Director wants you in his office in ten minutes.”
   Verheek opened the door. “What?”
   “Yes, sir. Ten minutes.”
   He rubbed his eyes and breathed rapidly. “What for?”
   “I get demoted for asking those questions, sir.”
   “Do you have any mouthwash?”
   “Well, yes, I believe so. Do you want it?”
   “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want it. Bring it to me. Do you have any gum?”
   “Gum?”
   “Chewing gum.”
   “Yes, sir. Do you want it too?”
   “Just bring me the mouthwash and gum, and some aspirin if you have it.” He walked to his desk and sat down, holding his head in his hands and rubbing his temples. He heard her banging drawers, and then she was before him with the goods.
   “Thanks. I’m sorry I snapped.” He pointed at the brief in a chair by the door. “Send that brief to Eric East, he’s on the fourth floor. Write a note from me. Tell him to look it over when he has a minute.”
   She left with the brief.


   Fletcher Coal opened the door to the Oval Office, and spoke gravely to K. O. Lewis and Eric East. The President was in Puerto Rico viewing hurricane damage, and Director Voyles now refused to meet with Coal alone. He sent his underlings.
   Coal waved them to a sofa, and he sat across the coffee table. His coat was buttoned and his tie was perfect. He never relaxed. East had heard tales about his habits. He worked twenty hours a day, seven days a week, drank nothing but water, and ate most meals from a vending machine in the basement. He could read like a computer, and spent hours each day reviewing memos, reports, correspondence, and mountains of pending legislation. He had perfect recall. For a week now they had brought daily reports of their investigation to this office, and handed them to Coal, who devoured the material and memorized it for the next meeting. If they misstated something, he would terrorize them. He was hated, but it was impossible not to respect him. He was smarter than them, and he worked harder. And he knew it.
   He was smug in the emptiness of the Oval Office. His boss was away performing for the cameras, but the real power had stayed behind to run the country.
   K. O. Lewis placed a four-inch stack of the latest on the table.
   “Anything new?” Coal asked.
   “Maybe. The French authorities were routinely reviewing footage taken by the security cameras at the Paris airport, and they thought they recognized a face. They checked it against two other cameras in the concourse, different angles, then reported to Interpol. The face is disguised, but Interpol believes it is Khamel, the terrorist. I’m sure you’ve heard of—”
   “I have.”
   “They’ve studied the footage at length, and are almost certain he exited a plane that arrived nonstop from Dulles last Wednesday, about ten hours after Jensen was found.”
   “The Concorde?”
   “No, United. Based on the time and the locations of the cameras, they have ways of determining the gates and flights.”
   “And Interpol contacted the CIA?”
   “Yes. They talked to Gminski around one this afternoon.”
   Coal’s face registered nothing. “How certain are they?”
   “Eighty percent. He’s a master of disguise, and it would be a bit unusual for him to travel in such a manner. So there’s room for doubt. We’ve got photos and a summary for the President’s review. Frankly, I’ve studied the pictures, and I can’t tell anything. But Interpol knows him.”
   “He hasn’t been willingly photographed in years, has he?”
   “Not that we know of. And rumor has it he goes under the knife and gets a new face every two or three years.”
   Coal pondered this for a second. “Okay. What if it’s Khamel, and what if he was involved in the killings? What does it mean?”
   “It means we’ll never find him. There are at least nine countries, including Israel, actively stalking him right now. It means he was paid a bunch of money by someone to use his talents here. We’ve said all along the killer or killers were professionals who were gone before the bodies were cold.”
   “So it means little.”
   “You could say that.”

   “Fine. What else do you have?”
   Lewis glanced at Eric East. “Well, we have the usual daily summary.”
   “They’ve been rather dry as of late.”
   “Yes, they have. We have three hundred and eighty agents working twelve hours a day. Yesterday they interviewed one hundred and sixty people in thirty states. We have—” Coal held up his hand. “Save it. I’ll read the summary. It seems safe to say there is nothing new.”
   “Maybe a small new wrinkle.” Lewis looked at Eric East, who was holding a copy of the brief.
   “What is it?” Coal asked.
   East shifted uncomfortably. The brief had been passed upward all day until Voyles read it and liked it. He viewed it as a long shot, unworthy of serious attention, but the brief mentioned the President, and he loved the idea of making Coal and his boss sweat. He instructed Lewis and East to deliver the brief to Coal, and to treat it as an important theory the Bureau was taking seriously. For the first time in a week, Voyles had smiled when he talked of the idiots in the Oval Office reading this little brief and running for cover. Play it up, Voyles said. Tell them we intend to pursue with twenty agents.
   “It’s a theory that has surfaced in the last twenty-four hours, and Director Voyles is quite intrigued by it. He’s afraid it could be damaging to the President.”
   Coal was stone-faced, never flinching. “How’s that?”
   East placed the brief on the table. “It’s all here in this report.”
   Coal glanced at it, then studied East. “Fine. I’ll read it later. Is that all?”
   Lewis stood and buttoned his jacket. “Yes, we’ll be going.”
   Coal followed them to the door.


   There was no fanfare when Air Force One landed at Andrews a few minutes after ten. The Queen was off raising money, and no friends or family greeted the President as he bounced off the plane and darted into his limousine. Coal was waiting. The President sunk low in the seat. “I didn’t expect you,” he said.
   “I’m sorry. We need to talk.” The limo sped away toward the White House.
   “It’s late and I’m tired.”
   “How was the hurricane?”
   “Impressive. It blew away a million shacks and cardboard huts, and now we’ll rush down with a couple of billion and build new homes and power plants. They need a good hurricane every five years.”
   “I’ve got the disaster declaration ready.”
   “Okay. What’s so important?”
   Coal handed over a copy of what was now known as the pelican brief.
   “I don’t want to read,” said the President. “Just tell me about it.”
   “Voyles and his motley crew have stumbled across a suspect that no one has mentioned until now. A most obscure, unlikely suspect. An eager-beaver law student at Tulane wrote this damned thing, and it somehow made its way to Voyles, who read it and decided it had merit. Keep in mind, they are desperate for suspects. The theory is so farfetched it’s incredible, and on its face it doesn’t worry me. But Voyles worries me. He’s decided he must pursue with enthusiasm, and the press is watching every move he makes. There could be leaks.”
   “We can’t control his investigation.”
   “We can manipulate it. Gminski is waiting at the White House, and—”
   “Gminski!”
   “Relax, Chief. I personally handed him a copy of this three hours ago, and swore him to secrecy. He may be incompetent, but he can keep a secret. I trust him much more than Voyles.”
   “I don’t trust either one of them.”
   Coal liked to hear this. He wanted the President to trust no one but him. “I think you should ask the CIA to immediately investigate this. I would like to know everything before Voyles starts digging. Neither will find anything, but if we know more than Voyles, you can convince him to back off. It makes sense, Chief.”
   The President was frustrated. “It’s domestic. CIA has no business snooping around. It’s probably illegal.”
   “It is illegal, technically. But Gminski will do it for you, and he can do it quickly, secretly, and more thoroughly than the FBI.”
   “It’s illegal.”
   “It’s been done before, Chief, many times.”
   The President watched the traffic. His eyes were puffy and red, but not from fatigue. He had slept three hours on the plane. But he’d spent the day looking sad and concerned for the cameras, and it was hard to snap out of it.
   He took the brief and tossed it on the empty seat next to him. “Is it someone we know?”
   “Yes.”


   Because it is a city of the night, New Orleans wakes slowly. It’s quiet until well after dawn, then shakes the cobwebs and eases into the morning. There’s no early rush except on the corridors to and from the suburbs, and the busy streets downtown. This is the same for all cities. But in the French Quarter, the soul of New Orleans, the smell of last night’s whiskey and jambalaya and blackened redfish lingers not far above the empty streets until the sun can be seen. An hour or two later, it is replaced with the aroma of French Market coffee and beignets, and around this time the sidewalks reluctantly show signs of life.
   Darby curled herself in a chair on the small balcony, sipping coffee and waiting on the sun. Callahan was a few feet away, through the open french doors, still wrapped in sheets and dead to the world. There was a trace of a breeze, but the humidity would return by noon. She pulled his robe closer around her neck, and inhaled the richness of his cologne. She thought of her father, and his baggy cotton button-downs he allowed her to wear when she was a teenager. She would roll the sleeves tightly to her elbows and let the tails hang to her knees, then walk the malls with her friends, secure in her belief that no one was cooler. Her father was her friend. By the time she finished high school, she had the run of his closet, as long as things were washed and neatly pressed and put back on the hangers. She could still smell the Grey Flannel he splashed on his face every day.
   If he was living, he would be four years older than Thomas Callahan. Her mother had remarried and moved to Boise. Darby had a brother in Germany. The three seldom talked. Her father had been the glue in a fractious family, and his death had scattered them.
   Twenty other people died in the plane crash, and before the funeral arrangements were complete the lawyers were calling. It was her first real exposure to the legal world, and it was not pleasant. The family attorney was a real estate type who knew nothing about litigation. A slick ambulance chaser got next to her brother, and he persuaded the family to sue quickly. His name was Herschel, and for two years the family suffered as Herschel stalled and lied and bungled the case. They settled a week before trial for half a million, after Herschel’s cut, and Darby got a hundred thousand.
   She decided to be a lawyer. If a clown like Herschel could do it and make big bucks while wreaking havoc on society, then she certainly could do it for a nobler purpose. She thought of Herschel often. When she passed the bar exam, her first lawsuit would be filed against him for malpractice. She wanted to work for an environmental firm. Finding a job, she knew, would not be a problem.
   The hundred thousand was intact. Her mother’s new husband was a paper company executive who was a little older and a lot wealthier, and shortly after their marriage she divided her portion of the settlement between Darby and her brother. She said the money reminded her of her deceased husband, and the gesture was symbolic. Though she still loved their father, she had a new life in a new city with a new husband who would retire in five years with money to burn. Darby had been confused by the symbolic gesture, but appreciated it and took the money.
   The hundred thousand had doubled. She placed most of it in mutual funds, but only in those without holdings in chemical and petroleum companies. She drove an Accord and lived modestly. Her wardrobe was basic law school, purchased from factory outlet stores. She and Callahan enjoyed the better restaurants in town, and never ate at the same place twice. It was always Dutch treat.
   He cared little for money, and never pressed her for information. She had more than the typical law student, but Tulane had its share of rich kids.
   They dated for a month before they went to bed. She laid the ground rules, and he anxiously agreed to them. There would be no other women. They would be very discreet. And he had to stop drinking so much.
   He stuck to the first two, but the drinking continued. His father, grandfather, and brothers were heavy drinkers, and it was sort of expected of him. But for the first time in his life, Thomas Callahan was in love, madly in love, and he knew the point at which the Scotch was interfering with his woman. He was careful. With the exception of last week and the personal trauma of losing Rosenberg, he never drank before 5 P.M. When they were together, he abandoned the Chivas when he’d had enough and thought it might affect his performance.
   It was amusing to watch a forty-five-year-old man fall for the first time. He struggled to maintain a level of coolness, but in their private little moments he was as silly as a sophomore.
   She kissed him on the cheek, and covered him with a quilt. Her clothes were placed neatly on a chair. She locked the front door quietly behind her. The sun was up now, peeking through the buildings across Dauphine. The sidewalk was empty.
   She had a class in three hours, then Callahan and con law at eleven. There was a mock court appellate brief due in a week. Her casenote for law review was gathering dust. She was behind in classwork for two courses. It was time to be a student again. She had wasted four days playing detective, and she cursed herself for it.
   The Accord was around the corner and down a half a block.


   They watched her, and it was enjoyable. Tight jeans, baggy sweater, long legs, sunglasses to hide the eyes with no makeup. They watched her close the door and walk quickly along Royale, then disappear around the corner. The hair was shoulder-length and appeared to be dark red. It was her.


   He carried his lunch in a little brown paper bag, and found an empty park bench with his back to New Hampshire. He hated Dupont Circle, with its bums, druggies, perverts, aging hippies, and black-leather punks with red spiked hair and vicious tongues. Across the fountain, a well-dressed man with a loudspeaker was assembling his group of animal rights activists for a march to the White House. The leather people jeered and cursed them, but four mounted policemen were close enough to prevent trouble.
   He looked at his watch and peeled a banana. Noon, and he preferred to eat elsewhere. The meeting would be brief. He watched the cursing and jeering, and saw his contact emerge through the crowd.
   Their eyes met, a nod, and he was sitting on the bench next to him. His name was Booker, from Langley. They met here occasionally, when the lines of communication became tangled or blurred and their bosses needed to hear real words that no one else would hear.
   Booker had no lunch. He began shelling roasted peanuts and throwing the hulls under the circular bench. “How’s Mr. Voyles?”
   “Mean as hell. The usual.”
   He threw peanuts in his mouth. “Gminski was in the White House until midnight last night,” Booker said.
   There was no response to this. Voyles knew it.
   Booker continued. “They’ve panicked over there. This little pelican thing has scared them. We’ve read it too, you know, and we’re almost certain you guys are not impressed, but for some reason Coal is terrified of it and he’s got the President upset. We sort of figure you guys are just having a little fun with Coal and his boss, and since the brief mentions the President and has that photo in it, we figure it’s sort of fun for you guys. Know what I mean?”
   He took an inch off the banana, and said nothing.
   The animal lovers moved away in ragged formation as the leather lovers hissed at them.
   “Anyway, it’s none of our business, and should be none of our business except the President now wants us to secretly investigate the pelican brief before you guys can get to it. He’s convinced we’ll find nothing, and he wants to know there’s nothing to it so he can convince Voyles to back off.”
   “There’s nothing to it.”
   Booker watched a drunk urinate in the fountain. The cops were riding off into the sun. “Then Voyles is having a little fun, right?”
   “We are pursuing all leads.”
   “No real suspects, though?”
   “No.” The banana was history. “Why are they so worried about us investigating this little thing?”
   Booker crunched on a small peanut still in the hull. “Well, to them it’s quite simple. They are livid over the revelation of Pryce and MacLawrence as nominees, and of course it’s all your fault. They distrust Voyles immensely. And if you guys start digging into the pelican brief, they’re terrified the press will find out and the President will take a beating. Reelection is next year, blah, blah, blah.”
   “What did Gminski tell the President?”
   “That he had no desire to interfere with an FBI investigation, that we had better things to do, and that it would be illegal as hell. But since the President was begging so hard and Coal was threatening so much, we’d do it anyway. And here I am talking to you.”
   “Voyles appreciates it.”
   “We’re gonna start digging today, but the whole thing is absurd. We’ll go through the motions, stay out of the way, and in a week or so tell the President the whole theory is a shot in the dark.”
   He folded down the top of his brown bag, and stood. “Good. I’ll report to Voyles. Thanks.” He walked toward Connecticut, away from the leather punks, and was gone.


   The monitor was on a cluttered table in the center of the newsroom, and Gray Grantham glared at it amid the hum and roar of the gathering and reporting. The words were not coming, and he sat and glared. The phone rang. He punched his button, and grabbed the receiver without leaving the monitor. “Gray Grantham.”
   “It’s Garcia.”

   He forgot the monitor. “Yeah, so what’s up?”
   “I have two questions. First, do you record these calls, and second, can you trace them?”
   “No and yes. We don’t record until we ask permission, and we can trace but we don’t. I thought you said you would not call me at work.”
   “Do you want me to hang up?”
   “No. It’s fine. I’d rather talk at 3 P.M. at the office than 6 A.M. in bed.”
   “Sorry. I’m just scared, that’s all. I’ll talk to you as long as I can trust you, but if you ever lie to me, Mr. Grantham, I’ll quit talking.”
   “It’s a deal. When do you start talking?”
   “I can’t talk now. I’m at a pay phone downtown, and I’m in a hurry.”
   “You said you had a copy of something.”
   “No, I said I might have a copy of something. We’ll see.”
   “Okay. So when might you call again?”
   “Do I have to make an appointment?”
   “No. But I’m in and out a lot.”
   “I’ll call during lunch tomorrow.”
   “I’ll be waiting right here.”
   Garcia was gone. Grantham punched seven digits, then six, then four. He wrote the number, then flipped through the yellow pages until he found Pay Phones Inc. The Vendor Location listed the number on Pennsylvania Avenue near the Justice Department.


   The argument started with dessert, a portion of the meal Callahan preferred to drink. She was nice enough when she clicked off the drinks he’d already consumed with dinner—two double Scotches while they waited on a table, one more before they ordered, and with the fish two bottles of wine, of which she’d had two glasses. He was drinking too fast and getting sloppy, and by the time she finished rattling off this accounting he was angry. He ordered Drambuie for dessert, because it was his favorite, and because it was suddenly a matter of principle. He gulped it and ordered another, and she was furious.
   Darby spooned her coffee and ignored him. Mouton’s was packed, and she just wanted to leave without a scene and get to her apartment alone.
   The argument turned nasty on the sidewalk as they walked away from the restaurant. He pulled the keys to the Porsche from his pocket, and she said he was too drunk to drive. Give her the keys. He gripped them and staggered on in the direction of the parking lot, three blocks away. She said she would walk. Have a nice one, he said. She followed a few steps behind, embarrassed at the stumbling figure in front of her. She pleaded with him. His blood level was at least point-two-zero. He was a law professor, dammit. He would kill someone. He staggered faster, coming perilously close to the curb, then weaving away. He yelled over his shoulder, something about driving better drunk than she could sober. She fell behind. She’d taken a ride before when he was like this, and she knew what a drunk could do in a Porsche.
   He crossed the street blindly, hands stuck deep in his pockets as if out for a casual stroll in the late night. He misjudged the curb, hit it with the toes instead of the sole, and went sprawling and bouncing and cursing along the sidewalk. He scrambled up quickly before she could reach him. Leave me alone, dammit, he told her. Just give me the keys, she begged, or I’m walking. He shoved her away. Have a nice one, he said with a laugh. She’d never seen him this drunk. He’d never touched her in anger, drunk or not.
   Next to the parking lot was a greasy little dive with neon beer signs covering the windows. She looked inside the open door for help, but thought, how stupid. It was filled with drunks.
   She yelled at him as he approached the Porsche. “Thomas! Please! Let me drive!” She was on the sidewalk and would go no farther.
   He stumbled on, waving her off, mumbling to himself. He unlocked the door, squeezed downward, and disappeared between the other cars. The engine started and roared as he gunned it.
   Darby leaned on the side of the building a few feet from the parking lot’s exit. She looked at the street, and almost hoped for a cop. She would rather have him arrested than dead.
   It was too far to walk. She would watch him drive away, then call a cab, then ignore him for a week. At least a week. Have a nice one, she repeated to herself. He gunned it again and squealed tires.
   The explosion knocked her to the sidewalk. She landed on all fours, face down, stunned for a second, then immediately aware of the heat and the tiny pieces of fiery debris falling in the street. She gaped in horror at the parking lot. The Porsche flipped in a perfect violent somersault and landed upside down. The tires and wheels and doors and fenders slung free. The car was a brilliant fireball, roaring away with flames instantly devouring it.
   Darby started toward it, screaming for him. Debris fell around her and the heat slowed her. She stopped thirty feet away, screaming with hands over her mouth.
   Then a second explosion flipped it again and drove her away. She tripped, and her head fell hard on the bumper of another car. The pavement was hot to her face, and that was the last she remembered for a moment.
   The dive emptied and the drunks were everywhere. They stood along the sidewalk and stared. A couple tried to advance, but the heat reddened their faces and kept them away. Thick, heavy smoke billowed from the fireball, and within seconds two other cars were on fire. There were shouts and voices in panic.
   “Whose car is it!”
   “Call 911!”
   “Is anybody in it!”
   “Call 911!”
   They dragged her by the elbows back to the sidewalk, to the center of the crowd. She was repeating the name Thomas. A cold cloth came from the dive and was placed on her forehead.
   The crowd thickened and the street was busy. Sirens, she heard sirens as she came around. There was a knot on the back of her head, and a coldness on her face. Her mouth was dry. “Thomas. Thomas,” she repeated.
   “It’s okay, it’s okay,” said a black face just above her. He was carefully holding her head and patting her arm. Other faces stared downward. They all nodded in agreement. “It’s okay.”
   The sirens were screaming now. She gently removed the cloth, and her eyes focused. There were red and blue lights flashing from the street. The sirens were deafening. She sat up. They leaned her against the building beneath the neon beer signs. They eased away, watching her carefully.
   “You all right, miss?” asked the black man.
   She couldn’t answer. Didn’t try to. Her head was broken. “Where is Thomas?” she asked, looking at the crack in the sidewalk.
   They looked at each other. The first fire truck screamed to a halt twenty feet away, and the crowd parted. Firemen jumped and scrambled in all directions.
   “Where is Thomas?” she repeated.
   “Miss, who is Thomas?” asked the black man.
   “Thomas Callahan,” she said softly, as if everyone knew him.
   “Was he in that car?”
   She nodded, then closed her eyes. The sirens wailed and died, and in between she heard the shouts of anxious men, and the popping of the fire. She could smell the burning.
   The second and third fire trucks came blaring in from different directions. A cop shoved his way through the crowd. “Police. Outta the way. Police.” He pushed and shoved until he found her. He fell to his knees and waved a badge under her nose. “Ma’am, Sergeant Rupert, NOPD.”
   Darby heard this but thought nothing of it. He was in her face, this Rupert with bushy hair, a baseball cap, black and gold Saints jacket. She stared blankly at him.
   “Is that your car, ma’am? Someone said it was your car.”
   She shook her head. “No.”
   Rupert was grabbing her elbows and pulling up. He was talking to her, asking if she was all right, and at the same time pulling her up and it hurt like hell. The head was fractured, split, busted, and she was in shock but what did this moron care. She was on her feet. The knees wouldn’t lock, and she was limp. He kept asking if she was all right. The black man looked at Rupert as if he was crazy.
   There, the legs worked now, and she and Rupert were walking through the crowd, behind a fire truck, around another one to an unmarked cop car. She lowered her head and refused to look at the parking lot. Rupert chatted incessantly. Something about an ambulance. He opened the front door and gingerly placed her in the passenger’s seat.
   Another cop squatted in the door and started asking questions. He wore jeans and cowboy boots with pointed toes. Darby leaned forward and placed her head in her hands. “I think I need help,” she said.
   “Sure, lady. Help’s on the way. Just a coupla questions. What’s your name?”
   “Darby Shaw. I think I’m in shock. I’m very dizzy, and I think I need to throw up.”
   “The ambulance is on the way. Is that your car over there?”
   “No.”
   Another cop car, one with decals and words and lights, squealed to a stop in front of Rupert’s. Rupert disappeared for a moment. The cowboy cop suddenly closed her door, and she was all alone in the car. She leaned forward and vomited between her legs. She started crying. She was cold. She slowly laid her head on the driver’s seat, and curled into a knot. Silence. Then darkness.


   Someone was knocking on the window above her. She opened her eyes, and the man wore a uniform and a hat with a badge on it. The door was locked.
   “Open the door, lady!” he yelled.
   She sat up and opened the door. “Are you drunk, lady?”
   The head was pounding. “No,” she said desperately.
   He opened the door wider. “Is this your car?”
   She rubbed her eyes. She had to think.
   “Lady, is this your car?”
   “No!” She glared at him. “No. It’s Rupert’s.”
   “Okay. Who the hell is Rupert?”
   There was one fire truck left and most of the crowd was gone. This man in the door was obviously a cop. “Sergeant Rupert. One of you guys,” she said.
   This made him mad. “Get outta the car, lady.”
   Gladly. Darby crawled out on the passenger’s side, and stood on the sidewalk. In the distance, a solitary fireman hosed down the burnt frame of the Porsche.
   Another cop in a uniform joined him and they met her on the sidewalk.
   The first cop asked, “What’s your name?”
   “Darby Shaw.”
   “Why were you passed out in the car?”
   She looked at the car. “I don’t know. I got hurt and Rupert put me in the car. Where’s Rupert?”
   The cops looked at each other. “Who the hell’s Rupert?” the first cop asked.
   This made her mad and the anger cleared away the cobwebs.
   “Rupert said he was a cop.”
   The second cop asked, “How’d you get hurt?”
   Darby glared at him. She pointed to the parking lot across the street. “I was supposed to be in that car over there. But I wasn’t, so I’m here, listening to your stupid questions. Where’s Rupert?”
   They looked blankly at each other. The first cop said, “Stay here,” and he walked across the street to another cop car where a man in a suit was talking to a small group. They whispered, then the first cop and the man in the suit walked back to the sidewalk where Darby waited. The man in the suit said, “I’m Lieutenant Olson, New Orleans PD. Did you know the man in the car?” He pointed to the parking lot.
   The knees went weak, and she bit her lip. She nodded.
   “What’s his name?”
   “Thomas Callahan.”
   Olson looked at the first cop. “That’s what the computer said. Now, who’s this Rupert?”
   Darby screamed, “He said he was a cop!”
   Olson looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry. There’s no cop named Rupert.”
   She was sobbing loudly. Olson helped her to the hood of Rupert’s car, and held her shoulders while the crying subsided and she fought to regain control.
   “Check the plates,” Olson told the second cop, who quickly scribbled down the tag number from Rupert’s car and called it in.
   Olson gently held both her shoulders with his hands and looked at her eyes. “Were you with Callahan?”
   She nodded, still crying but much quieter. Olson glanced at the first cop.
   “How did you get in this car?” Olson asked slowly and softly.
   She wiped her eyes with her finger and stared at Olson. “This guy Rupert, who said he was a cop, came and got me from over there, and brought me over here. He put me in the car, and this other cop with cowboy boots starting asking questions. Another cop car pulled up, and they left. Then I guess I passed out. I don’t know. I would like to see a doctor.”
   “Get my car,” Olson said to the first cop.
   The second cop was back with a puzzled look. “The computer has no record of this tag number. Must be fake tags.”
   Olson took her arm and led her to his car. He spoke quickly to the two cops. “I’m taking her to Charity. Wrap this up and meet me there. Impound the car. We’ll check it later.”
   She sat in Olson’s car listening to the radio squawk and staring at the parking lot. Four cars had burned. The Porsche was upside down in the center, nothing but a crumpled frame. A handful of firemen and other emergency types milled about. A cop was stringing yellow crime-scene tape around the lot.
   She touched the knot on the back of her head. No blood. Tears dripped off her chin.
   Olson slammed his door, and they eased through the parked cars and headed for St. Charles. He had the blue lights on, but no sirens.
   “Do you feel like talking?” he asked.
   They were on St. Charles. “I guess,” she said. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
   “Yes, Darby. I’m sorry. I take it he was the only one in the car.”
   “Yes.”
   “How’d you get hurt?”

   He gave her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes. “I fell or something. There were two explosions, and I think the second one knocked me down. I don’t remember everything. Please, tell me who Rupert is.”
   “I have no idea. I don’t know a cop named Rupert, and there was no cop here with cowboy boots.”
   She thought about this for a block and a half.
   “What did Callahan do for a living?”
   “A law professor at Tulane. I’m a student there.”
   “Who would want to kill him?”
   She stared at the traffic lights and shook her head. “You’re certain it was intentional?”
   “No doubt about it. It was a very powerful explosive. We found a piece of a foot stuck in a chain-link fence eighty feet away. I’m sorry, okay? He was murdered.”
   “Maybe someone got the wrong car.”
   “That’s always possible. We’ll check out everything. I take it you were supposed to be in the car with him.”
   She tried to speak, but could not hold the tears. She buried her face in the handkerchief.
   He parked between two ambulances near the emergency entrance at Charity, and left the blue lights on. He helped her quickly inside to a dirty room where fifty people sat in various degrees of pain and discomfort. She found a seat by the water fountain. Olson talked to the lady behind the window, and he raised his voice but Darby couldn’t understand him. A small boy with a bloody towel around his foot cried in his mother’s lap. A young black girl was about to give birth. There was not a doctor or nurse in sight. No one was in a hurry.
   Olson crouched in front of her. “It’ll be a few minutes. Sit tight. I’m gonna move the car, and I’ll be back in a minute. Do you feel like talking?”
   “Yeah, sure.”
   He was gone. She checked again for blood, and found none. The double doors opened wide, and two angry nurses came after the girl in labor. They sort of dragged her away, back through the doors and down the hall.
   Darby waited, then followed. With the red eyes and handkerchief, she looked like some child’s mother. The hall was a zoo with nurses and orderlies and the wounded yelling and moving about. She turned a corner and saw an EXIT sign. Through the door, into another hall, much quieter, another door, and she was on a loading dock. There were lights in the alley. Don’t run. Be strong. It’s okay. No one’s watching. She was on the street, walking briskly. The cool air cleared her eyes. She refused to cry.
   Olson would take his time, and when he returned he would figure they had called her name and she was back there getting worked on. He would wait. And wait.
   She turned corners, and saw Rampart. The Quarter was just ahead. She could get lost there. There were people on Royal, tourist types strolling along. She felt safer. She entered the Holiday Inn, paid with plastic, and got a room on the fifth floor.
   After the door was bolted and chained, she curled up on the bed with all the lights on.


   Mrs. Verheek rolled her plump but rich ass away from the center of the bed, and grabbed the phone. “It’s for you, Gavin!” she yelled into the bathroom. Gavin emerged with shaving cream on half his face, and took the receiver from his wife, who burrowed deep into the bed. Like a hog rutting in mud, he thought.
   “Hello,” he snapped.
   It was a female voice he’d never heard before. “This is Darby Shaw. Do you know who I am?”
   He smiled instantly, and for a second thought of the string bikini on St. Thomas. “Well, yes. I believe we have a mutual friend.”
   “Did you read the little theory I wrote?”
   “Ah, yes. The pelican brief, as we refer to it.”
   “And who is we?”
   Verheek sat in a chair by the night table. This was no social call. “Why are you calling, Darby?”
   “I need some answers, Mr. Verheek. I’m scared to death.”
   “It’s Gavin, okay?”
   “Gavin. Where is the brief now?”
   “Here and there. What’s wrong?”
   “I’ll tell you in a minute. Just tell me what you did with the brief.”
   “Well, I read it, then sent it to another division, and it was seen by some folks within the Bureau, then shown to Director Voyles, who sort of liked it.”
   “Has it been seen outside the FBI?”
   “I can’t answer that, Darby.”
   “Then I won’t tell you what’s happened to Thomas.”
   Verheek pondered this for a long minute. She waited patiently. “Okay. Yes, it’s been seen outside the FBI. By whom and by how many, I don’t know.”
   “He’s dead, Gavin. He was murdered around ten last night. Someone planted a car bomb for both of us. I got lucky, but now they’re after me.”
   Verheek was hovering over the phone, scribbling notes. “Are you hurt?”
   “Physically, I’m okay.”
   “Where are you?”
   “New Orleans.”
   “Are you certain, Darby? I mean, I know you’re certain, but, dammit, who would want to kill him?”
   “I met a couple of them.”
   “How’d you—”
   “It’s a long story. Who saw the brief, Gavin? Thomas gave it to you Monday night. It’s been passed around, and forty-eight hours later he’s dead. And I’m supposed to be dead with him. It fell into the wrong hands, wouldn’t you say?”
   “Are you safe?”
   “Who the hell knows?”
   “Where are you staying? What’s your phone number?”
   “Not so fast, Gavin. I’m moving real slow right now. I’m at a pay phone, so no cute stuff.”
   “Come on, Darby! Give me a break! Thomas Callahan was my best friend. You’ve got to come in.”
   “And what might that mean?”
   “Look, Darby, give me fifteen minutes, and we’ll have a dozen agents pick you up. I’ll catch a flight and be there before noon. You can’t stay on the streets.”
   “Why, Gavin? Who’s after me? Talk to me, Gavin.”
   “I’ll talk to you when I get there.”
   “I don’t know. Thomas is dead because he talked to you. I’m not that anxious to meet you right now.”
   “Darby, look, I don’t know who or why, but I assure you you’re in a very dangerous situation. We can protect you.”
   “Maybe later.”
   He breathed deeply and sat on the edge of the bed. “You can trust me, Darby.”
   “Okay, I trust you. But what about those other people? This is heavy, Gavin. My little brief has someone awfully upset, wouldn’t you say?”
   “Did he suffer?”
   She hesitated. “I don’t think so.” The voice was cracking.
   “Will you call me in two hours? At the office. I’ll give you an inside number.”
   “Give me the number, and I’ll think about it.”
   “Please, Darby. I’ll go straight to the Director when I get there. Call me at eight, your time.”
   “Give me the number.”


   The bomb exploded too late to make the Thursday morning edition of the Times-Picayune. Darby flipped through it hurriedly in the hotel room. Nothing. She watched the television, and there it was. A live shot of the burned-out Porsche, still sitting amid the debris in the parking lot, secluded nicely with yellow tape running everywhere. The police were treating it as a homicide. No suspects. No comment. Then the name of Thomas Callahan, age forty-five, a prominent professor of law at Tulane. The dean was suddenly there with a microphone in his face, talking about Professor Callahan and the shock of it all. The shock of it all, the fatigue, the fear, the pain, and Darby buried her head in the pillow. She hated crying, and this would be the last of it for a while. Mourning would only get her killed.


   Even though it was a wonderful crisis, with the ratings up and Rosenberg dead, with his image clean and polished and America feeling good about itself because he was in command, with the Democrats running for cover and reelection next year in the bag, he was sick of this crisis and its relentless predawn meetings. He was sick of F. Denton Voyles and his smugness and arrogance, and his squatty little figure sitting on the other side of his desk in a wrinkled trench coat looking out a window while he addressed the President of the United States. He would be here in a minute for another meeting before breakfast, another tense encounter in which Voyles would tell only a portion of what he knew.
   He was sick of being in the dark, and fed only what bits and crumbs Voyles chose to throw his way. Gminski would throw him a few, and somehow in the midst of all this crumb scattering and gathering he was supposed to get enough and be satisfied. He knew nothing compared to them. At least he had Coal to plow through their paper and memorize it all, and keep them honest.
   He was sick of Coal, too. Sick of his perfectness and sleeplessness. Sick of his brilliance. Sick of his penchant for beginning each day when the sun was somewhere over the Atlantic, and planning every damned minute of every damned hour until it was over the Pacific. Then he, Coal, would load up a box of the day’s junk, take it home, read it, decipher it, store it, then come in a few hours later blazing away with all the painfully boring mishmash he had just devoured. When Coal was tired, he slept five hours a night, but normal was three or four. He left his office in the West Wing at eleven each night, read all the way home in the back of his limo, then about the time the limo cooled off Coal was waiting on it for the return ride to the White House. He considered it a sin to arrive at his desk after 5 A.M. And if he could work a hundred and twenty hours a week, then everyone else should be able to do at least eighty. He demanded eighty. After three years, no one in this Administration could remember all the people fired by Fletcher Coal for not working eighty hours a week. Happened at least three times a month.
   Coal was happiest on mornings when the tension was thick and a nasty meeting was planned. In the past week this thing with Voyles had kept him smiling. He was standing beside the desk, going through the mail while the President scanned the Post and two secretaries scurried about.
   The President glanced at him. Perfect black suit, white shirt, red silk tie, a bit too much grease on the hair above the ears. He was sick of him, but he’d get over it when the crisis passed and he could get back to golf and Coal could sweat the details. He told himself he had that kind of energy and stamina when he was only thirty-seven, but he knew better.
   Coal snapped his fingers, glared at the secretaries, and they happily ran from the Oval Office.
   “And he said he wouldn’t come if I was here. That’s hilarious.” Coal was clearly amused.
   “I don’t think he likes you,” the President said.
   “He loves people he can run over.”
   “I guess I need to be sweet to him.”
   “Lay it on thick, Chief. He has to back off. This theory is so weak it’s comical, but in his hands it could be dangerous.”
   “What about the law student?”
   “We’re checking. She appears harmless.”
   The President stood and stretched. Coal shuffled papers. A secretary on the intercom announced the arrival of Voyles.
   “I’ll be going,” Coal said. He would listen and watch from around the corner. At his insistence, three closed-circuit cameras were installed in the Oval Office. The monitors were in a small, locked room in the West Wing. He had the only key. Sarge knew of the room, but had not bothered to enter. Yet. The cameras were invisible and supposedly a big secret.
   The President felt better knowing Coal would at least be watching. He met Voyles at the door with a warm handshake and guided him to the sofa for a warm, friendly little chat. Voyles was not impressed. He knew Coal would be listening. And watching.
   But in the spirit of the moment, Voyles removed his trench coat and laid it properly on a chair. He did not want coffee.
   The President crossed his legs. He was wearing the brown cardigan. The grandfather.
   “Denton,” he said gravely. “I want to apologize for Fletcher Coal. He doesn’t have much finesse.”
   Voyles nodded slightly. You stupid bastard. There are enough wires in this office to electrocute half the bureaucrats in D.C. Coal was somewhere in the basement hearing about his lack of finesse. “He can be an ass, can’t he?” Voyles grunted.
   “Yes, he can. I have to really watch him. He’s very bright and drives hard, but he tends to overdo it at times.”
   “He’s a son of a bitch, and I’ll say it to his face.” Voyles glanced at an air vent above the portrait of Thomas Jefferson where a camera watched it all below.
   “Yes, well, I’ll keep him out of your way until this thing is over.”
   “You do that.”
   The President slowly sipped from his coffee and pondered what to say next. Voyles was not known for his conversation.
   “I need a favor.”
   Voyles stared with rigid and unblinking eyes. “Yes, sir.”
   “I need the scoop on this pelican thing. It’s a wild idea, but, hell, it mentions me, sort of. How serious are you taking it?”
   Oh, this was funny. Voyles fought off a smile. It was working. Mr. President and Mr. Coal were sweating the pelican brief. They had received it late Tuesday, worried with it all day Wednesday, and now in the waking hours of Thursday were on their knees begging about something one notch above a practical joke.
   “We’re investigating, Mr. President.” It was a lie, but how could he know? “We are pursuing all leads, all suspects. I wouldn’t have sent it over if I wasn’t serious.” The wrinkles squeezed together on the tanned forehead, and Voyles wanted to laugh.
   “What have you learned?”
   “Not much, but we just started. We got it less than forty-eight hours ago, and I assigned fourteen agents in New Orleans to start digging. It’s all routine.” The lies sounded so good he could almost hear Coal choking.
   Fourteen! It hit him in the gut so hard he sat up straight and placed the coffee on a table. Fourteen Fibbies out there flashing badges, asking questions, and it was just a matter of time before this thing got out. “Fourteen, you say. Sounds like it’s pretty serious.”
   Voyles was unyielding. “We’re very serious, Mr. President. They’ve been dead a week, and the trail’s growing colder. We’re tracking leads as fast as we can. My men are working around the clock.”

   “I understand all that, but how serious is this pelican theory?”
   Damn, this was fun. The brief had yet to be sent to New Orleans. In fact, New Orleans had not been contacted. He had instructed Eric East to mail a copy to that office with orders to quietly ask a few questions. It was a dead end, just like a hundred others they were chasing.
   “I doubt if there’s anything to it, Mr. President, but we’ve got to check it out.”
   The wrinkles relaxed and there was a touch of a smile. “I don’t have to tell you, Denton, how much this nonsense could hurt if the press found out.”
   “We don’t consult the press when we investigate.”
   “I know. Let’s not get into that. I just wish you would back off this thing. I mean, what the hell, it’s absurd, and I could really get burned. Know what I’m saying?”
   Voyles was brutal. “Are you asking me to ignore a suspect, Mr. President?”
   Coal leaned toward the screen. No, I’m telling you to forget this pelican brief! He almost said it out loud. He could make it real plain for Voyles. He could spell it out, then slap the dumpy little wretch if he got smart. But he was hiding in a locked room, away from the action. And, for the moment, he knew he was where he belonged.
   The President shifted and recrossed his legs at the knees. “Come on, Denton, you know what I’m saying. There are bigger fish in the pond. The press is watching this investigation, just dying to find out who’s a suspect. You know how they are. I don’t have to tell you that I have no friends with the press. Even my own press secretary dislikes me. Ha, ha, ha. Forget about it for a while. Back off and chase the real suspects. This thing is a joke, but it could embarrass the hell out of me.”
   Denton looked hard at him. Relentless.
   The President shifted again. “What about this Khamel thing? Sounds pretty good, huh?”
   “Could be.”
   “Yeah. Since we’re talking numbers, how many men have you assigned to Khamel?”
   Voyles said, “Fifteen,” and almost laughed. The President’s mouth fell open. The hottest suspect in the game gets fifteen, and this damned pelican thing gets fourteen.
   Coal smiled and shook his head. Voyles had been caught in his own lies. On the bottom of page four of the Wednesday report, Eric East and K. O. Lewis gave the number at thirty, not fifteen. Relax, Chief, Coal whispered to the screen. He’s playing with you.
   The President was anything but relaxed. “Good god, Denton. Why only fifteen? I thought this was a significant break.”
   “Maybe a few more than that. I’m running this investigation, Mr. President.”
   “I know. And you’re doing a fine job. I’m not meddling. I just wish you’d consider spending your time elsewhere. That’s all. When I read the pelican brief I almost vomited. If the press saw it and started digging, I’d be crucified.”
   “So you’re asking me to back off?”
   The President leaned forward and stared fiercely at Voyles. “I’m not asking, Denton. I’m telling you to leave it alone. Ignore it for a couple of weeks. Spend your time elsewhere. If it flares up again, take another look. I’m still the boss around here, remember?”
   Voyles relented and managed a tiny smile. “I’ll make you a deal. Your hatchet man Coal has done a number on me with the press. They’ve eaten my lunch over the security we provided to Rosenberg and Jensen.”
   The President nodded solemnly.
   “You get that pit bull off my ass, keep him away from me, and I’ll forget the pelican theory.”
   “I don’t make deals.”
   Voyles sneered but kept his cool. “Good. I’ll send fifty agents to New Orleans tomorrow. And fifty the next day. We’ll be flashing badges all over town and doing our damnedest to attract attention.”
   The President jumped to his feet and walked to the windows overlooking the Rose Garden. Voyles sat motionless and waited.
   “All right, all right. It’s a deal. I can control Fletcher Coal.”
   Voyles stood and walked slowly to the desk. “I don’t trust him, and if I smell him one more time during this investigation, the deal’s off and we investigate the pelican brief with all the weight I can muster.”
   The President held up his hands and smiled warmly. “It’s a deal.”
   Voyles was smiling and the President was smiling, and in the closet near the Cabinet Room Fletcher Coal was smiling at a screen. Hatchet man, pit bull. He loved it. Those were the words that created legends.
   He turned off the screens and locked the door behind him. They would talk another ten minutes about the background checks on the short list, and he would listen in his office where he had audio but no video. He had a staff meeting at nine. A firing at ten. And he had some typing to do. With most memos, he simply dictated into the machine and handed the tape to a secretary. But occasionally, Coal found it necessary to resort to the phantom memo. These were always widely circulated in the West Wing, and always controversial as hell, and usually dripped to the press. Because they came from no one, they could be found lying on almost every desk. Coal would scream and accuse. He had fired people for phantom memos, all of which came from his typewriter.
   It was four single-spaced paragraphs on one page, and it summarized what he knew about Khamel and his recent flight out of Washington. And there were vague links to the Libyans and Palestinians. Coal admired it. How long before it would be in the Post or the Times? He made little bets with himself about which paper would get it first.


   The Director was at the White House, and from there would fly to New York and return tomorrow. Gavin camped outside the office of K. O. Lewis until there was a small opening. He was in.
   Lewis was irritated, but always the gentleman. “You look scared.”
   “I’ve just lost my best friend.”
   Lewis waited for more.
   “His name was Thomas Callahan. He’s the guy from Tulane who brought me the pelican brief, and it got passed around, then sent to the White House and who knows where else, and now he’s dead. Blown to bits by a car bomb last night in New Orleans. Murdered, K.O.”
   “I’m sorry.”
   “It’s not a matter of being sorry. Evidently the bomb was intended for Callahan and the student who wrote it, a girl by the name of Darby Shaw.”
   “I saw her name on the brief.”
   “That’s right. They’ve been dating, and were supposed to be in the car together when it exploded. But she survived, and I get this call this morning at five, and it’s her. Scared to death.”
   Lewis listened, but was already dismissing it. “You’re not certain it was a bomb.”
   “She said it was a bomb, okay? It went BOOM! and blew the hell out of everything, okay? I’m certain he’s dead.”
   “And you think there’s a connection between his death and the brief?”
   Gavin was a lawyer, untrained in the art of investigation, and he did not wish to appear gullible. “There could be. I think so, yes. Don’t you?”
   “Doesn’t matter, Gavin. I just got off the phone with the Director. Pelican’s off our list. I’m not sure it was ever on, but we’re spending no more time on it.”
   “But my friend’s been killed with a car bomb.”
   “I’m sorry. I’m sure the authorities down there are investigating.”
   “Listen to me, K.O. I’m asking for a favor.”
   “Listen to me, Gavin. I don’t have any favors. We’re chasing enough rabbits right now, and if the Director says stop, then we stop. You’re free to talk to him. I wouldn’t advise it.”
   “Maybe I’m not handling this right. I thought you would listen to me, and at least act interested.”
   Lewis was walking around the desk. “Gavin, you look bad. Take the day off.”
   “No. I’ll go to my office, wait an hour, and come back in here and do this again. Can we try it again in an hour?”
   “No. Voyles was explicit.”
   “So was the girl, K.O. He was murdered, and now she’s hiding somewhere in New Orleans afraid of her shadow, calling us for help, and we’re too busy.”
   “I’m sorry.”
   “No, you’re not. It’s my fault. I should’ve thrown the damned thing in the garbage.”
   “It served a valuable purpose, Gavin.” Lewis placed his hand on his shoulder as if his time was up and he was tired of this drivel. Gavin jerked away and headed for the door.
   “Yeah, it gave you guys something to play with. I should’ve burned it.”
   “It’s too good to burn, Gavin.”
   “I’m not giving up. I’ll be back in an hour, and we’ll do this again. This didn’t go right.” Verheek slammed the door behind him.


   She entered Rubinstein Brothers from Canal Street, and got lost between the racks of men’s shirts. No one followed her in. She quickly picked out a navy parka, men’s small, a genderless pair of aviator sunglasses, and a British driving cap that was also a men’s small but fit. She paid for it with plastic. As the clerk ran the card through, she picked the tags off, and put the parka on. It was baggy, like something she would wear to class. She stuffed her hair under the hooded collar. The clerk watched discreetly. She exited on Magazine Street, and got lost in the crowd.
   Back on Canal. A busload of tourists swarmed into the Sheraton, and she joined them. She went to the wall of phones, found the number, and called Mrs. Chen, her neighbor in the duplex next door. Had she seen or heard anyone? Very early, there was a knock on the door. It was still dark, and woke them. She didn’t see anyone, just heard the knock. Her car was still on the street. Everything okay? Yes, all’s fine. Thanks.
   She watched the tourists and punched the inside number for Gavin Verheek. Inside meant a minor hassle only, and after three minutes of refusing to give her name and repeating his, she had him.
   “Where are you?” he asked.
   “Let me explain something. For the moment, I will not tell you or anyone else where I am. So don’t ask.”
   “All right. I guess you’re making the rules.”
   “Thank you. What did Mr. Voyles say?”
   “Mr. Voyles was at the White House and unavailable. I’ll try to talk to him later today.”
   “That’s pretty weak, Gavin. You’ve been at the office for almost four hours, and you have nothing. I expected more.”
   “Be patient, Darby.”
   “Patience will get me killed. They’re after me, aren’t they, Gavin?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “What would you do if you knew you were supposed to be dead, and the people trying to kill you have had assassinated two Supreme Court Justices, and knocked off a simple law professor, and they have billions of dollars which they obviously don’t mind using to kill with? What would you do, Gavin?”
   “Go to the FBI.”
   “Thomas went to the FBI, and he’s dead.”
   “Thanks, Darby. That’s not fair.”
   “I’m not worried about fairness or feelings. I’m more concerned with staying alive until noon.”
   “Don’t go to your apartment.”
   “I’m not stupid. They’ve already been there. And I’m sure they’re watching his apartment.”
   “Where’s his family?”
   “His parents live in Naples, Florida. I guess the university will contact them. I don’t know. He has a brother in Mobile, and I thought of calling him and trying to explain all this.”
   She saw a face. He walked among the tourists at the registration desk. He held a folded newspaper and tried to appear at home, just another guest, but his walk was a bit hesitant and his eyes were searching. The face was long and thin with round glasses and a shiny forehead.
   “Gavin, listen to me. Write this down. I see a man I’ve seen before, not long ago. An hour maybe. Six feet two or three, thin, thirty years old, glasses, receding hair, dark in color. He’s gone. He’s gone.”
   “Who the hell is it?”
   “We haven’t met, dammit!”
   “Did he see you? Where the hell are you?”
   “In a hotel lobby. I don’t know if he saw me. I’m gone.”
   “Darby! Listen to me. Whatever you do, keep in touch with me, okay?”
   “I’ll try.”
   The rest room was around the corner. She went to the last stall, locked the door behind her, and stayed there for an hour.


   The photographer’s name was Croft, and he’d worked for the Post for seven years until his third drug conviction sent him away for nine months. Upon parole, he declared himself to be a free-lance artist, and advertised as such in the yellow pages. The phone seldom rang. He did a little of this work—this slithering around shooting people who did not know they were targets. Many of his clients were divorce lawyers who needed dirt for trial. After two years of free-lancing, he had picked up a few tricks and now considered himself a halfass private investigator. He charged forty bucks an hour when he could get it.
   Another client was Gray Grantham, an old friend from his newspaper days who called when he needed dirt. Grantham was a serious, ethical reporter with just a touch of sleaze, and when he needed a dirty trick, he called. He liked Grantham because he was honest about his sleaziness. The rest were so pious.
   He was in Grantham’s Volvo because it had a phone. It was noon, and he was smoking his lunch, wondering if the smell would linger with all the windows down. He did his best work half-stoned. When you stare at motels for a living, you need to be stoned.
   There was a nice breeze coming in from the passenger’s side, blowing the smell onto Pennsylvania. He was parked illegally, smoking dope, and not really concerned. He had less than an ounce on him, and his probation officer smoked it too, so what the hell.

  The phone booth was a block and a half ahead, on the sidewalk but away from the street. With his telephoto lens, he could almost read the phone book hanging from the rack. Piece of cake. A large woman was inside, filling the booth and talking with her hands. Croft took a drag and watched the mirror for cops. This was a tow-away zone. Traffic was heavy on Pennsylvania.
   At twenty after twelve, the woman fought her way out of the booth, and from nowhere a young man with a nice suit appeared and closed the door. Croft got his Nikon and rested the lens on the steering wheel. It was cool and sunny, and the sidewalk bustled with lunch traffic. The shoulders and heads moved quickly by. A gap. Click. A gap. Click. The subject was punching numbers and glancing around. This was their man.
   He talked for thirty seconds, and the car phone rang three times and stopped. It was the signal from Grantham at the Post. This was their man, and he was talking. Croft fired away. Get all you can get, Grantham had said. A gap. Click. Click. Heads and shoulders. A gap. Click. Click. His eyes darted around as he talked, but he kept his back to the street. Full face. Click. Croft burned a roll of thirty-six in two minutes, then grabbed another Nikon. He screwed on the lens, and waited for a mob to pass.
   He took the last drag and thumped it into the street. This was so easy. Oh sure, it took talent to capture the image in a studio, but this street work was much more fun. There was something felonious about stealing a face with a hidden camera.
   The subject was a man of few words. He hung up, looked around, opened the door, looked around, and started toward Croft. Click, click, click. Full face, full figure, walking faster, getting closer, beautiful, beautiful. Croft worked feverishly, then at the last moment laid the Nikon in the seat and looked at Pennsylvania as their man walked by and disappeared in a group of secretaries.
   What a fool. When you’re on the run, never use the same pay phone twice.


   Garcia was shadow boxing. He had a wife and child, he said, and he was scared. There was a career ahead with plenty of money, and if he paid his dues and kept his mouth shut he would be a wealthy man. But he wanted to talk. He rambled on about how he wanted to talk, had something to say and all, but just couldn’t make the decision. He didn’t trust anyone.
   Grantham didn’t push. He let him ramble long enough for Croft to do his number. Garcia would eventually spill his guts. He wanted to so badly. He had called three times now, and was growing comfortable with his new friend Grantham, who’d played this game many times and knew how it worked. The first step was to relax and build trust, to treat them with warmth and respect, to talk about right and wrong and moralities. Then they would talk.
   The pictures were beautiful. Croft was not his first choice. He was usually so bombed you could tell it in the photography. But Croft was sleazy and discreet, with a working knowledge of journalism, and he happened to be available on short notice. He had picked twelve and blown them to five by seven, and they were outstanding. Right profile. Left profile. Full face into the phone. Full face looking at the camera. Full figure less than twenty feet away. Piece of cake, Croft said.
   Garcia was under thirty, a very nice-looking, clean-cut lawyer. Dark, short hair. Dark eyes. Maybe Hispanic, but the skin was not dark. The clothes were expensive. Navy suit, probably wool. No stripes or patterns. Basic white spread collar with a silk tie. Basic black or burgundy wing tips with a sparkling shine. The absence of a briefcase was puzzling. But then, it was lunch, and he probably ran from the office to make the call, then back to the office. The Justice Department was a block away.
   Grantham studied the pictures and kept an eye on the door. Sarge was never late. It was dark and the club was filling up. Grantham’s was the only white face within three blocks.
   Of the tens of thousands of government lawyers in D.C., he had seen a few who knew how to dress, but not many. Especially the younger ones. They started at forty a year and clothes were not important. Clothes were important to Garcia, and he was too young and well dressed to be a government lawyer.
   So he was a private one, in a firm for about three or four years now and hitting somewhere around eighty grand. Great. That narrowed it down to fifty thousand lawyers and no doubt expanding by the moment.
   The door opened and a cop walked in. Through the smoke and haze, he could tell it was Cleve. This was a respectable joint with no dice or whores, so the presence of a cop was not alarming. He sat in the booth across from Grantham.
   “Did you pick this place?” Grantham asked.
   “Yeah. You like it?”
   “Let’s put it like this. We’re trying to be inconspicuous, right? I’m here picking up secrets from a White House employee. Pretty heavy stuff. Now tell me, Cleve, do I look inconspicuous sitting here in all my whiteness?”
   “I hate to tell you this, Grantham, but you’re not nearly as famous as you think. You see those dudes at the bar.” They looked at the bar lined with construction workers. “I’d give you my paycheck if any dude there has ever read the Washington Post, heard of Gray Grantham, or gives a damn what happens at the White House.”
   “Okay, okay. Where’s Sarge?”
   “Sarge is not feeling well. He gave me a message for you.”
   Wouldn’t work. He could use Sarge as an unnamed source, but not Sarge’s son or anyone else Sarge talked to. “What’s wrong with him?”
   “Old age. He didn’t want to talk tonight, but it’s urgent, he says.”
   Grantham listened and waited.
   “I’ve got an envelope in my car, all licked and sealed real tight. Sarge got real blunt when he gave it to me, and told me not to open it. Just take it to Mr. Grantham. I think it’s important.”
   “Let’s go.”
   They made their way through the crowd to the door. The patrol car was parked illegally at the curb. Cleve opened the passenger door, and pulled the envelope from the glove box. “He got this in the West Wing.”
   Grantham stuffed it in his pocket. Sarge was not one to lift things, and in the course of their relationship he had never produced a document.
   “Thanks, Cleve.”
   “He wouldn’t tell me what it is, told me I’ll just have to wait and read it in the paper.”
   “Tell Sarge I love him.”
   “I’m sure that’ll give him a thrill.”
   The patrol car drove away, and Grantham hurried to his Volvo, now filled with the stench of burnt grass. He locked the door, turned on the dome light, and ripped open the envelope. It was clearly an internal White House memo, and it was about an assassin named Khamel.


   He was flying across town. Out of Brightwood, onto Sixteenth and south toward central Washington. It was almost seven-thirty, and if he could put it together in an hour, it would make the Late City edition, the largest of half a dozen editions that began rolling off the presses at ten-thirty. Thank god for the little yuppie car phone he had been embarrassed to buy. He called Smith Keen, the assistant managing editor/investigations, who was still in the newsroom on the fifth floor. He called a friend at the foreign desk, and asked him to pull everything on Khamel.
   He was suspicious of the memo. The words were too sensitive to put on paper, then sling around the office like the latest policy on coffee or bottled water or vacations. Someone, probably Fletcher Coal, wanted the world to know that Khamel had emerged as a suspect, and that he was an Arab of all things, and had close ties to Libya and Iran and Iraq, countries led by fiery idiots who hated America. Someone in the White House of Fools wanted the story on the front page.
   But it was a helluva story and it was front-page news. He and Smith Keen had it finished by nine. They found two old pictures of a man widely believed to be Khamel, but so dissimilar they appeared to be of different people. Keen said run both of them. The file on Khamel was thin. Much rumor and legend, but little meat. Grantham mentioned the Pope, the British diplomat, the German banker, and the ambush of the Israeli soldiers. And now, according to a confidential source at the White House, a most reliable and trusted source, Khamel was a suspect in the killings of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen.


   Twenty-four hours after hitting the street, she was still alive. If she could make it to morning, she could start another day with new ideas about what to do and where to go. For now, she was tired. She was in a room on the fifteenth floor of the Marriott, with the door bolted, lights on, and the mighty can of Mace lying on the bedspread. Her thick, dark red hair was now in a paper sack in the closet. The last time she cut her hair she was three years old, and her mother whipped her tail.
   It took two painful hours with dull scissors to cut it off yet leave some semblance of style. She would keep it under a cap or hat until who knows when. It took another two hours to color it black. She could’ve bleached it and gone blonde, but that would be obvious. She assumed she was dealing with professionals, and for some unfathomable reason she determined at the drugstore that they might expect her to do this and become a blonde. And what the hell. The stuff came in a bottle, and if she woke up tomorrow with a wild hair she could go blonde. The chameleon strategy. Change colors every day and drive ‘em crazy. Clairol had at least eighty-five shades.
   She was dead tired but afraid of sleep. She had not seen her friend from the Sheraton during the day, but the more she moved around the more the faces looked the same. He was out there, she knew. And he had friends. If they could assassinate Rosenberg and Jensen, and knock off Thomas Callahan, she would be easy.
   She couldn’t go near her car, and she didn’t want to rent one. Rentals leave records. And they were probably watching. She could fly, but they were stalking the airports. Take a bus, but she’d never bought a ticket or seen the inside of a Greyhound.
   And after they realized she had disappeared, they would expect her to run. She was just an amateur, a little college girl brokenhearted after watching her man blown to bits and fried. She would make a mad dash somewhere, get out of the city, and they would pick her off.
   She rather liked the city at this moment. It had a million hotel rooms, almost as many alleys and dives and bars, and it always had crowds of people strolling along Bourbon, Chartres, Dauphine, and Royal. She knew it well, especially the Quarter, where life was within walking distance. She would move from hotel to hotel for a few days, until when? She didn’t know when. She didn’t know why. Moving just seemed intelligent under the circumstances. She would stay off the streets in the mornings, and try to sleep then. She would change clothes and hats and sunglasses. She would start smoking, and keep one in her face. She would move until she got tired of moving, then she might leave. It was okay to be scared. She had to keep thinking. She would survive.
   She thought of calling the cops, but not now. They took names and kept records, and they could be dangerous. She thought of calling Thomas’ brother in Mobile, but there wasn’t a single thing the poor man could do to help her at this moment. She thought of calling the dean, but how could she explain the brief, Gavin Verheek, the FBI, the car bomb, Rosenberg and Jensen, and her on the run and make it sound believable. Forget the dean. She didn’t like him anyway. She thought of calling a couple of friends from law school, but people talk, and people listen, and they could be out there listening to the people talking about poor Callahan. She wanted to talk to Alice Stark, her best friend. Alice was worried, and Alice would go to the cops and tell them her friend Darby Shaw was missing. She would call Alice tomorrow.
   She dialed room service, and ordered a Mexican salad and a bottle of red wine. She would drink all of it, then sit in a chair with the Mace and watch the door until she fell asleep.


   Gminski’s limo made a wild U-turn on Canal as if it owned the street, and came to a sudden stop in front of the Sheraton. Both rear doors flew open. Gminski was out first, followed quickly by three aides who scurried after him with bags and briefcases.
   It was almost 2 A.M., and the Director was obviously in a hurry. He did not stop at the front desk, but went straight for the elevators. The aides ran behind him and held the elevator door for him, and no one spoke as they rode up six floors.
   Three of his agents were waiting in a corner room. One of them opened the door, and Gminski barged through it without any sort of greeting. The aides threw the bags on one bed. The Director yanked off his jacket and threw it in a chair.
   “Where is she?” he snapped at an agent by the name of Hooten. The one named Swank opened the curtains, and Gminski walked to the window.
   Swank was pointing to the Marriott, across the street and down a block. “She’s on the fifteenth floor, third room from the street, lights are still on.”
   Gminski stared at the Marriott. “You’re certain?”
   “Yes. We saw her go in, and she paid with a credit card.”
   “Poor kid,” Gminski said as he walked away from the window. “Where was she last night?”
   “Holiday Inn on Royal. Paid with a credit card.”
   “Have you seen anyone following her?” the Director asked.
   “No.”
   “I need some water,” he said to an aide, who jumped toward the ice bucket and rattled cubes.
   Gminski sat on the edge of the bed, laced his fingers together, and cracked every possible knuckle. “What do you think?” he asked Hooten, the oldest of the three agents.
   “They’re chasing her. They’re looking under rocks. She’s using credit cards. She’ll be dead in forty-eight hours.”
   “She’s not completely stupid,” Swank inserted. “She cut her hair and colored it black. She’s moving around. It’s apparent she has no plans to leave the city any time soon. I’ll give her seventy-two hours before they find her.”
   Gminski sipped his water. “This means her little brief is directly on point. And it means our friend is now a very desperate man. Where is he?”
   Hooten answered quickly. “We have no idea.”
   “We have to find him.”
   “He hasn’t been seen in three weeks.”
   Gminski set the glass on the desk, and picked up a room key. “So what do you think?” he asked Hooten.
   “Do we bring her in?” Hooten asked.
   “It won’t be easy,” Swank said. “She may have a gun. Someone could get hurt.”
   “She’s a scared kid,” Gminski said. “She’s also a civilian, not a member. We can’t go around snatching civilians off the sidewalk.”
   “Then she won’t last long,” Swank said.
   “How do you take her?” Gminski asked.
   “There are ways,” Hooten answered. “Catch her on the street. Go to her room. I could be inside her room in less than ten minutes if I left right now. It’s not that difficult. She’s not a pro.”
   Gminski paced slowly around the room and everyone watched him. He glanced at his watch. “I’m not inclined to take her. Let’s sleep four hours, and meet here at six-thirty. Sleep on it. If you can convince me to snatch her, then I’ll say do it. Okay?” They nodded obediently.

   The wine worked. She dozed in the chair, then made it to the bed and slept hard. The phone was ringing. The bedspread was hanging to the floor, and her feet were on the pillows. The phone was ringing. The eyelids were glued together. The mind was numb and lost in dreams, but somewhere in the deep recesses something worked and told her the phone was ringing.
   The eyes opened but saw little. The sun was up, the lights were on, and she stared at the phone. No, she did not ask for a wake-up call. She thought about this for a second, then she was certain. No wake-up call. She sat on the edge of the bed and listened to it ring. Five times, ten, fifteen, twenty. It would not stop. Could be a wrong number, but they would stop after twenty rings.
   It was not a wrong number. The cobwebs began to clear, and she moved closer to the phone. With the exception of the registration clerk and maybe his boss, and perhaps room service, not a single living soul knew she was in this room. She had ordered food, but made no other calls.
   It stopped ringing. Good, wrong number. She walked to the bathroom, and it was ringing again. She counted. After the fourteenth ring, she lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
   “Darby, it’s Gavin Verheek. Are you okay?”
   She sat on the bed. “How’d you get the number?”
   “We have ways. Listen, have—”
   “Wait, Gavin. Wait a minute. Let me think. The credit card, right?”
   “Yes. The credit card. The paper trail. It’s the FBI, Darby. We have ways. It’s not that difficult.”
   “Then they could do it too.”
   “I suppose. Stay in the small joints and pay with cash.”
   There was a thick knot in her stomach, and she stretched on the bed. Just like that. Not difficult. The paper trail. She could be dead. Killed along the paper trail.
   “Darby, are you there?”
   “Yes.” She looked at the door to make sure it was chained. “Yes, I’m here.”
   “Are you safe?”
   “I thought so.”
   “We’ve got some information. There will be a memorial service tomorrow at three on campus, with burial afterward in the city. I’ve talked to his brother, and the family wants me to serve as a pallbearer. I’ll be there tonight. I think we should meet.”
   “Why should we meet?”
   “You’ve got to trust me, Darby. Your life is in danger right now, and you need to listen to me.”
   “What’re you guys up to?”
   There was a pause. “What do you mean?”
   “What did Director Voyles say?”
   “I haven’t talked to him.”
   “I thought you were his attorney, so to speak. What’s the matter, Gavin?”
   “We’re taking no action at this time.”
   “And what might that mean, Gavin? Talk to me.”
   “That’s why we need to meet. I don’t want to do this over the phone.”
   “The phone is working fine, and it’s all you’re going to get right now. So let’s have it, Gavin.”
   “Why won’t you trust me?” He was wounded.
   “I’m hanging up, okay? I don’t like this. If you guys know where I am, then someone could be out there in the hallway waiting.”
   “Nonsense, Darby. You’ve got to use your head. I’ve had your room number for an hour, and done nothing but call. We’re on your side, I swear.”
   She thought about this. It made sense, but they had found her so easily. “I’m listening. You haven’t talked to the Director, but the FBI’s taking no action. Why not?”
   “I’m not sure. He made the decision yesterday to back off the pelican brief, and gave instructions to leave it alone. That’s all I can tell you.”
   “That’s not very much. Does he know about Thomas? Does he know that I’m supposed to be dead because I wrote it and forty-eight hours after Thomas gave it to you, his old buddy from law school, they, whoever in hell they are, tried to kill both of us? Does he know all this, Gavin?”
   “I don’t think so.”
   “That means no, doesn’t it?”
   “Yes. It means no.”
   “Okay, listen to me. Do you think he was killed because of the brief?”
   “Probably.”
   “That means yes, doesn’t it?”
   “Yes.”
   “Thanks. If Thomas was murdered because of the brief, then we know who killed him. And if we know who killed Thomas, then we know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen. Right?”
   Verheek hesitated.
   “Just say yes, dammit!” Darby snapped.
   “I’ll say probably.”
   “Fine. Probably means yes for a lawyer. I know it’s the best you can do. It’s a very strong probability, yet you’re telling me the FBI is backing off my little suspect.”
   “Settle down, Darby. Let’s meet tonight and talk about it. I could save your life.”
   She carefully laid the receiver under a pillow, and walked to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and what was left of her hair, then threw the toiletries and change of clothes into a new canvas bag. She put on the parka, cap, and sunglasses, and quietly closed the door behind her. The hall was empty. She walked up two flights to the seventeenth, then took the elevator to the tenth, then casually walked down ten flights to the lobby. The door from the stairway opened near the rest rooms, and she was quickly inside the women’s. The lobby appeared to be deserted. She went to a stall, locked the door, and waited for a while.


   Friday morning in the Quarter. The air was cool and clean without the lingering smell of food and sin. Eight A.M. too early for people. She walked a few blocks to clear her head and plan the day. On Dumaine near Jackson Square she found a coffee shop she’d seen before. It was nearly empty and had a pay phone in the back. She poured her own thick coffee, and set it on a table near the phone. She could talk here.
   Verheek was on the phone in less than a minute. “I’m listening,” he said.
   “Where will you stay tonight?” she asked, watching the front door.
   “Hilton, by the river.”
   “I know where it is. I’ll call late tonight or early in the morning. Don’t track me again. I’m into cash now. No plastic.”
   “That’s smart, Darby. Keep moving.”
   “I may be dead by the time you get here.”
   “No, you won’t. Can you find a Washington Post down there?”
   “Maybe. Why?”
   “Get one quick. This morning’s. Nice little story about Rosenberg and Jensen and perhaps who done it.”
   “I can’t wait. I’ll call later.”
   The first newsstand did not have the Post. She zigzagged toward Canal, covering her tracks, watching her rear, down St. Ann, along the antique shops on Royal, through the seedy bars on both sides of Bienville, and finally to the French Market along Decatur and North Peters. She was quick but nonchalant. She walked with an air of business, her eyes darting in all directions behind the shades. If they were back there somewhere in the shadows watching and keeping up, they were good.
   She bought a Post and a Times-Picayune from a sidewalk vendor, and found a table in a deserted corner of Café du Monde.
   Front page. Citing a confidential source, the story dwelt on the legend of Khamel and his sudden involvement in the killings. In his younger days, it said, he had killed for his beliefs, but now he just did it for money. Lots of money, speculated a retired intelligence expert who allowed himself to be quoted but certainly not identified. The photos were blurred and indistinct, but ominous beside each other. They could not be of the same person. But then, said the expert, he was unidentifiable and had not been photographed in over a decade.
   A waiter finally made it by, and she ordered coffee and a plain bagel. The expert said many thought he was dead. Interpol believed he had killed as recently as six months ago. The expert doubted he would travel by commercial air. The FBI had him at the top of their list.
   She opened the New Orleans paper slowly. Thomas did not make page one, but his picture was on page two with a long story. The cops were treating it as a homicide, but there wasn’t much to go on. A white female had been seen in the area shortly before the explosion. The law school was in shock, according to the dean. The cops said little. Services were tomorrow on campus. A horrible mistake had been made, the dean said. If it was murder, then someone had obviously killed the wrong person.
   Her eyes were wet, and suddenly she was afraid again. Maybe it was simply a mistake. It was a violent city with crazy people, and maybe someone got their wires crossed and the wrong car was chosen. Maybe there was no one out there stalking her.
   She put the sunglasses on and looked at his photo. They had pulled it from the law school annual, and there was that smirk he habitually wore when he was the professor. He was clean shaven, and so handsome.


   Grantham’s Khamel story electrified Washington Friday morning. It mentioned neither the memo nor the White House, so the hottest game in town was speculating about the source.
   The game was especially hot in the Hoover Building. In the office of the Director, Eric East and K. O. Lewis paced nervously about while Voyles talked to the President for the third time in two hours. Voyles was cussing, not directly at the President, but all around him. He cussed Coal, and when the President cussed back, Voyles suggested they set up the polygraph, strap in everyone on his staff, beginning with Coal, and just see where the damned leaks were coming from. Yes, hell yes, he, Voyles, would take the test, and so would everyone who worked in the Hoover Building. And they cussed back and forth. Voyles was red and sweating, and the fact that he was yelling into the telephone and the President was on the other end receiving all this mattered not a bit. He knew Coal was listening somewhere.
   Evidently, the President gained control of the conversation and launched into a long-winded sermon of some sort. Voyles wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, sat in his ancient leather swivel, and began controlled breathing to lower the pressure and pulse. He had survived one heart attack and was due for another, and had told K. O. Lewis many times that Fletcher Coal and his idiot boss would eventually kill him. But he’d said that about the last three Presidents. He pinched the fat wrinkles on his forehead and sunk lower into the chair. “We can do that, Mr. President.” He was almost pleasant now. He was a man of swift and radical mood swings, and suddenly before their eyes he was courteous. A real charmer. “Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
   He hung up gently, and spoke with his eyes closed. “He wants us to place that Post reporter under surveillance. Says we’ve done it before, so will we do it again? I told him we would.”
   “What type of surveillance?” asked K.O.
   “Let’s just follow him in the city. Around the clock with two men. See where he goes at night, who he sleeps with. He’s single, isn’t he?”
   “Divorced seven years ago,” Lewis answered.
   “Make damned sure we don’t get caught. Do it with plain-clothes, and switch ‘em up every three days.”
   “Does he really believe the leaks are coming from us?”
   “No, I don’t think so. If we were leaking, why would he want us to trail the reporter? I think he knows it’s his own people. And he wants to catch them.”
   “It’s a small favor,” Lewis added helpfully.
   “Yeah. Just don’t get caught, okay?”


   The office of L. Matthew Barr was tucked away on the third floor of a tacky and decaying office building on M Street in Georgetown. There were no signs on the doors. An armed guard in a coat and tie turned people away at the elevator. The carpet was worn and the furniture was old. Dust covered it, and it was apparent the Unit spent no money on housekeeping. Barr ran the Unit, which was an unofficial, hidden, little division of the Committee to Reelect the President. CRP had a vast suite of plush offices across the river in Rosslyn. It had windows that opened and secretaries who smiled and maids that cleaned every night. But not this dump.
   Fletcher Coal stepped off the elevator and nodded at the security guard, who nodded back without making another move. They were old acquaintances. He made his way through the small maze of dingy offices in the direction of Barr’s. Coal took pride in being honest with himself, and he honestly did not fear any man in Washington, maybe with the possible exception of Matthew Barr. Sometimes he feared him, sometimes not, but he always admired him.
   Barr was an ex-Marine, ex-CIA, ex-spy with two felony convictions for security scams from which he earned millions and buried the money. He had served a few months in one of the country clubs, but no real time. Coal had personally recruited Barr to head the Unit, which officially did not exist.
   It had an annual budget of four million, all cash from various slush funds, and Barr supervised a small band of highly trained thugs who quietly did the work of the Unit.
   Barr’s door was always locked. He opened it and Coal entered. The meeting would be brief, as usual.
   “Let me guess,” Barr started. “You want to find the leak.”
   “In a way, yes. I want you to follow this reporter, Grantham, around the clock and see who he’s talking to. He’s getting some awfully good stuff, and I’m afraid it’s coming from us.”
   “You’re leaking like cardboard.”
   “We’ve got some problems, but the Khamel story was a plant. Did it myself.”
   Barr smiled at this. “I thought so. It seemed too clean and pat.”
   “Did you ever run across Khamel?”
   “No. Ten years ago we were sure he was dead. He likes it that way. He has no ego, so he’ll never get caught. He can live in a paper shack in Sao Paulo for six months, eating roots and rats, then fly off to Rome to murder a diplomat, then off to Singapore for a few months. He doesn’t read his press clippings.”
   “How old is he?”

   “Why are you interested?”
   “I’m fascinated. I think I know who hired him to kill Rosenberg and Jensen.”
   “Oh, really. Can you share this bit of gossip?”
   “No. Not yet.”
   “He’s between forty and forty-five, which is not that old, but he killed a Lebanese general when he was fifteen. So he’s had a long career. This is all legend, you understand. He can kill with either hand, either foot, a car key, a pencil, whatever. He’s an expert marksman with all weapons. Speaks twelve languages. You’ve heard all this, haven’t you?”
   “Yeah, but it’s fun.”
   “Okay. He’s believed to be the most proficient and expensive assassin in the world. In his early years he was just another terrorist, but he was much too talented for simple bomb throwing. So he became an assassin for hire. He’s a bit older now, and kills just for money.”
   “How much money?”
   “Good question. He’s probably in the ten-to-twenty-million-a-job range, and there’s not but one other guy I know of in that league. One theory believes he shares it with other terrorist groups. No one knows, really. Let me guess, you want me to find Khamel and bring him back alive.”
   “You leave Khamel alone. I sort of like the work he did here.”
   “He’s very talented.”
   “I want you to follow Gray Grantham and find out who he’s talking to.”
   “Any ideas?”
   “A couple. There’s a man by the name of Milton Hardy who works as a janitor in the West Wing.” Coal threw an envelope on the desk. “He’s been around for a long time, appears to be half blind, but I think he sees and hears a lot. Follow him for a week or two. Everyone calls him Sarge. Make plans to take him out.”
   “This is great, Coal. We’re spending all this money to track blind Negroes.”
   “Just do as I say. Make it three weeks.” Coal stood and headed for the door.
   “So you know who hired the killer?” Barr said.
   “We’re getting close.”
   “The Unit is more than anxious to help.”
   “I’m sure.”


   Mrs. Chen owned the duplex, and had been renting the other half to female law students for fifteen years. She was picky but private, and lived and let live as long as all was quiet. It was six blocks from campus.
   It was dark when she answered the door. The person on the porch was an attractive young lady with short dark hair and a nervous smile. Very nervous.
   Mrs. Chen frowned at her until she spoke.
   “I’m Alice Stark, a friend of Darby’s. May I come in?” She glanced over her shoulder. The street was quiet and still. Mrs. Chen lived alone with the doors and windows locked tightly, but she was a pretty girl with an innocent smile, and if she was a friend of Darby’s, then she could be trusted. She opened the door, and Alice was inside.
   “Something’s wrong,” Mrs. Chen said.
   “Yes. Darby is in a bit of trouble, but we can’t talk about it. Did she call this afternoon?”
   “Yes. She said a young woman would look through her apartment.”
   Alice breathed deeply and tried to appear calm. “It’ll just take a minute. She said there was a door through a wall somewhere. I prefer not to use the front or rear doors.” Mrs. Chen frowned and her eyes asked, Why not? but she said nothing.
   “Has anyone been in the apartment in the last two days?” Alice asked. She followed Mrs. Chen down a narrow hallway.
   “I’ve seen no one. There was a knock early yesterday before the sun, but I didn’t look.” She moved a table away from a door, pushed a key around, and opened it.
   Alice stepped in front of her. “She wanted me to go in alone, okay?” Mrs. Chen wanted to check it out, but she nodded and closed the door behind Alice. It opened into a tiny hallway that was suddenly dark. To the left was the den, and a light switch that couldn’t be used. Alice froze in the darkness. The apartment was black and hot with a thick smell of old garbage. She’d expected to be alone, but she was a second-year law student, dammit!, not some hotshot private detective.
   Get a grip. She fumbled through a large purse and found a pencil-thin flashlight. There were three of them in there. Just in case. In case of what? She didn’t know. Darby had been quite specific. No lights could be seen through the windows. They could be watching.
   Who in hell are they? Alice wanted to know. Darby didn’t know, said she would explain it later but first the apartment had to be examined.
   Alice had been in the apartment a dozen times in the past year, but she’d been allowed to enter through the front door with a full array of lights and other conveniences. She had been in all the rooms, and felt confident she could feel around in the darkness. The confidence was gone. Vanished. Replaced with trembling fear.
   Get a grip. You’re all alone. They wouldn’t camp out here with a nosy woman next door. If they had indeed been here, it was only for a brief visit.
   After staring at the end of it, she determined that the flashlight worked. It glowed with all the energy of a fading match. She pointed it at the floor, and saw a faint round circle the size of a small orange. The circle was shaking.
   She tiptoed around a corner in the direction of the den. Darby said there was a small lamp on the bookshelves next to the television, and that the light was always on. She used it as a nightlight, and it was supposed to cast a faint glow across the den to the kitchen. Either Darby lied, or the bulb was gone, or someone had unscrewed it. It didn’t matter, really, at this point, because the den and kitchen were pitch-black.
   She was on the rug in the center of the den, inching toward the kitchen table where there was supposed to be a computer. She kicked the edge of the coffee table, and the flashlight quit. She shook it. Nothing. She found number two in the purse.
   The odor was heavier in the kitchen. The computer was on the table along with an assortment of empty files and casebooks. She examined the mainframe with her dinky little light. The power switch was on the front. She pushed it, and the monochrome screen slowly warmed up. It emitted a greenish light that covered the table but did not escape the kitchen.
   Alice sat down in front of the keyboard and began pecking. She found Menu, then List, then Files. The Directory covered the screen. She studied it closely. There were supposed to be somewhere around forty entries, but she saw no more than ten. Most of the hard-drive memory was gone. She turned on the laser printer, and within seconds the Directory was on paper. She tore it off and stuffed it in the purse.
   She stood with her flashlight and inspected the clutter around the computer. Darby estimated the number of floppy disks at twenty, but they were all gone. Not a single floppy. The casebooks were for con law and civil procedure, and so dull and generic no one would want them. The red expandable files were stacked neatly together, but empty.
   It was a clean, patient job. He or they had spent a couple of hours erasing and gathering, then left with no more than one briefcase or bag of goods.
   In the den by the television, Alice peeked out the side window. The red Accord was still there, not four feet from the window. It looked fine.
   She twisted the bulb in the nightlight, and quickly flicked the switch on, then off. Worked perfectly. She unscrewed it just as he or they had left it.
   Her eyes had focused—she could see the outlines of doors and furniture. She turned the computer off, and eased through the den to the hall.
   Mrs. Chen was waiting exactly where she’d left her. “Okay?” she asked.
   “Everything’s fine,” Alice said. “Just watch it real close. I’ll call you in a day or two to see if anyone has been by. And please, don’t tell anyone I was here.”
   Mrs. Chen listened intently as she moved the table in front of the door. “What about her car?”
   “It’ll be fine. Just watch it.”
   “Is she all right?”
   They were in the den, almost to the front door. “She’s gonna be fine. I think she’ll be back in a few days. Thank you, Mrs. Chen.”
   Mrs. Chen closed the door, bolted it, and watched from the small window. The lady was on the sidewalk, then gone in the darkness.
   Alice walked three blocks to her car.


   Friday night in the Quarter! Tulane played in the Dome tomorrow, then the Saints on Sunday, and the rowdies were out by the thousands, parking everywhere, blocking streets, roaming in noisy mobs, drinking from go cups, crowding bars, just having a delightful time raising hell and enjoying themselves. The Inner Quarter was gridlocked by nine.
   Alice parked on Poydras, far away from where she wanted to park, and was an hour late when she arrived at the crowded oyster bar on St. Peter, deep in the Quarter. There were no tables. They were packed three deep at the bar. She retreated to a corner with a cigarette machine, and surveyed the people. Most were students in town for the game.
   A waiter walked directly to her. “Are you looking for another female?” he asked.
   She hesitated. “Well, yes.”
   He pointed beyond the bar. “Around the corner, first room on the right, there’s some small tables. I think your friend is there.”
   Darby was in a tiny booth, crouched over a beer bottle, with sunglasses and a hat. Alice squeezed her hand. “It’s good to see you.” She studied the hairdo, and was amused by it. Darby removed the sunglasses. The eyes were red and tired.
   “I didn’t know who else to call.”
   Alice listened with a blank face, unable to think of something appropriate and unable to take her eyes off the hair. “Who did the hair?” she asked.
   “Nice, huh? It’s sort of the punk look, which I think is making a comeback and will certainly impress folks when I start interviewing for a job.”
   “Why?”
   “Someone tried to kill me, Alice. My name’s on a list that some very nasty people are holding. I think they’re following me.”
   “Kill? Did you say ‘kill’? Who would want to kill you, Darby?”
   “I’m not sure. What about my apartment?”
   Alice stopped looking at the hair, and handed her the printout of the Directory. Darby studied it. It was real. This was not a dream or a mistake. The bomb had found the right car. Rupert and the cowboy had had their hands on her. The face she had seen was looking for her. They had gone to her apartment and erased what they wanted to erase. They were out there.
   “What about floppies?”
   “None. Not a single one. The expandable files on the kitchen table were placed together real neat and are real empty. Everything else appears to be in order. They unscrewed the bulb in the nightlight, so there’s total darkness. I checked it. Works fine. These are very patient people.”
   “What about Mrs. Chen?”
   “She’s seen nothing.”
   Darby stuffed the printout into a pocket. “Look, Alice, suddenly I’m very scared. You don’t need to be seen with me. Maybe this was not a good idea.”
   “Who are these people?”
   “I don’t know. They killed Thomas, and they tried to kill me. I got lucky, and now they’re after me.”
   “But why, Darby?”
   “You don’t want to know, and I’m not going to tell. The more you know, the more danger you’re in. Trust me, Alice. I can’t tell you what I know.”
   “But I won’t tell. I swear.”
   “What if they make you tell?”
   Alice glanced around as if all was fine. She studied her friend. They had been close since freshman orientation. They had studied hours together, shared notes, sweated exams, teamed up for mock trials, gossiped about men. Alice was hopefully the only student who knew about Darby and Callahan. “I want to help, Darby. I’m not afraid.”
   Darby had not touched the beer. She slowly spun the bottle. “Well, I’m terrified. I was there when he died, Alice. The ground shook. He was blown to pieces and I was supposed to be with him. It was intended for me.”
   “Then go to the cops.”
   “Not yet. Maybe later. I’m afraid to. Thomas went to the FBI, and two days later we were supposed to be dead.”
   “So the FBI is after you?”
   “I don’t think so. They started talking, and someone was listening very closely, and it found the wrong ears.”
   “Talked about what? Come on, Darby. It’s me. Your best friend. Stop playing games.”
   Darby took the first tiny swallow from the bottle. Eye contact was avoided. She stared at the table. “Please, Alice. Allow me to wait. There’s no sense telling you something that could get you killed.” A long pause. “If you want to help, go to the memorial service tomorrow. Watch everything. Spread the word that I called you from Denver where I’m staying with an aunt with a name you don’t know, and that I’ve dropped out this semester but I’ll be back in the spring. Make sure that rumor gets started. I think some people will be listening carefully.”
   “Okay. The paper mentioned a white female near the scene when he was killed, as if she might be a suspect or something.”
   “Or something. I was there and I was supposed to be a victim. I’m reading the papers with a magnifying glass. The cops are clueless.”
   “Okay, Darby. You’re smarter than I am. You’re smarter than every person I’ve ever met. So what now?”
   “First, go out the back door. There’s a white door at the end of the hall where the rest rooms are. It goes into a storage room, then to the kitchen, then out the back door. Don’t stop. The alley leads to Royal. Catch a cab and ride back to your car. Watch your rear.”
   “Are you serious?”
   “Look at this hair, Alice. Would I mutilate myself like this if I was playing games?”
   “Okay, okay. Then what?”
   “Go to the service tomorrow, start the rumor, and I’ll call you within two days.”
   “Where are you staying?”
   “Here and there. I move around a lot.”
   Alice stood and pecked her on the cheek. Then she was gone.

  For two hours, Verheek stomped the floor, picking up magazines, tossing them around, ordering room service, unpacking, stomping. Then for the next two hours, he sat on the bed, sipping a hot beer and staring at the phone. He would do this until midnight, he told himself, and then, well, then what?
   She said she would call.
   He could save her life if she would only call.
   At midnight, he threw another magazine and left the room. An agent in the New Orleans office had helped a little, and given him a couple of law school hangouts close to campus. He would go there and mix and mingle, drink a beer, and listen. The students were in town for the game. She wouldn’t be there, and it wouldn’t matter because he’d never seen her. But maybe he would hear something, and he could drop a name, leave a card, make a friend who knew her or maybe knew someone who knew her. A long shot, but a helluva lot more productive than staring at the phone.
   He found a seat at the bar in a joint called Barrister’s, three blocks from campus. It had a nice little varsity look to it with football schedules and pinups on the walls. The crowd was rowdy and under thirty.
   The bartender looked like a student. After two beers, the crowd thinned and the bar was half empty. There would be another wave in a moment.
   Verheek ordered number three. It was one-thirty. “Are you a law student?” he asked the bartender.
   “Afraid so.”
   “It’s not that bad, is it?”
   He was wiping around the peanuts. “I’ve had more fun.”
   Verheek longed for the bartenders who served his beer in law school. Those guys knew the art of conversation. Never met a stranger. Talk about anything.
   “I’m a lawyer,” Verheek said in desperation.
   Oh, hey, wow, this guy’s a lawyer. How rare. Someone special. The kid walked off.
   Little son of a bitch. I hope you flunk out. Verheek grabbed his bottle and turned to face the tables. He felt like a grandfather amid the children. Though he hated law school and the memories of it, there had been some long Friday nights in the bars of Georgetown with his pal Callahan. Those were good memories.
   “So what kind of law?” The bartender was back. Gavin turned to the bar, and smiled.
   “Special counsel, FBI.”
   He was still wiping. “So you’re in Washington?”
   “Yeah, in town for the game Sunday. I’m a Redskins freak.” He hated the Redskins and every other organized football team. Don’t get the kid started on football. “Where do you go to school?”
   “Here. Tulane. I’ll finish in May.”
   “Then where?”
   “Probably Cincinnati for a clerkship for a year or two.”
   “You must be a good student.”
   He shrugged it off. “You need a beer?”
   “No. Did you have Thomas Callahan?”
   “Sure. You know him?”
   “I was in law school with him at Georgetown.” Verheek pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to the kid. “I’m Gavin Verheek.” The kid looked at it, then politely laid it next to the ice. The bar was quiet and the kid was tired of chitchat.
   “Do you know a student by the name of Darby Shaw?”
   The kid glanced at the tables. “No. I haven’t met her, but I know who she is. I think she’s second year.” A long, rather suspicious pause. “Why?”
   “We need to talk to her.” We, as in FBI. Not simply he, as in Gavin Verheek. The “we” part sounded much graver. “Does she hang out in here?”
   “I’ve seen her a few times. She’s hard to miss.”
   “I’ve heard.” Gavin looked at the tables. “Do you think these guys might know her?”
   “Doubt it. They’re all first year. Can’t you tell? They’re over there arguing property rights and search and seizure.”
   “Yeah, those were the days.” Gavin pulled a dozen cards from his pocket and laid them on the bar. “I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, or hear anything, drop one of these.”
   “Sure. There was a cop in last night asking questions. You don’t think she was involved in his death?”
   “No, not at all. We just need to talk to her.”
   “I’ll keep my eyes open.”
   Verheek paid for the beer, thanked the kid again, and was on the sidewalk. He walked three blocks to the Half Shell. It was almost two. He was dead tired, half drunk, and a band cranked up the second he walked through the door. The place was dark, packed, and fifty fraternity joes with their sorority sues were immediately dancing on tables. He weaved through the uprising and found safety in the back near the bar. They were three deep, shoulder to shoulder, and no one moved. He clawed his way forward, got a beer to be cool, and realized again he was by far the oldest one there. He retreated to a dark but crowded corner. It was hopeless. He couldn’t hear himself think, let alone carry on a conversation.
   He watched the bartenders—all young, all students. The oldest looked late twenties, and he rang up check after check as if he was closing out. His moves were hurried, as if it was time to go. Gavin studied every move.
   He quickly untied his apron, flung it in a corner, ducked under the bar, and was gone. Gavin elbowed through the mob, and caught him as he stepped through the kitchen door. He had an FBI business card ready. “I’m sorry. I’m with the FBI.” He stuck the card in his face. “Your name is?”
   The kid froze, and looked wildly at Verheek. “Uh, Fountain. Jeff Fountain.”
   “Fine, Jeff. Look, nothing’s wrong, okay? Just a couple of questions.” The kitchen had shut down hours ago, and they were alone. “Just take a second.”
   “Well, okay. What’s up?”
   “You’re a law student, right?” Please say yes. His friend said most of the bartenders here were law students.
   “Yes. At Loyola.”
   “Loyola! Where the hell! Yeah, well, that’s what I thought. You’ve heard about Professor Callahan at Tulane. Funeral’s tomorrow.”
   “Sure. It’s all over the papers. Most of my friends go to Tulane.”
   “Do you know a second-year student there by the name of Darby Shaw? Very attractive female.”
   Fountain smiled. “Yeah, she dated a friend of mine last year. She’s in here occasionally.”
   “How long ago?”
   “It’s been a month or two. What’s wrong?”
   “We need to talk to her.” He handed Fountain a stack of cards. “Hang on to these. I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her around, or if you hear anything, drop one of these.”
   “What might I hear?”
   “Something about Callahan. We need to see her real bad, okay?”
   “Sure.” He stuck the cards in a pocket.
   Verheek thanked him and returned to the revelry. He inched through the mob, listening to the attempts at conversation. A fresh mob was entering, and he wrestled his way out the door. He was too old for this.
   Six blocks away, he parked illegally in front of a fraternity house next to the campus. His last stop for the night would be a dark little pool hall, which, at the moment, was not crowded. He paid for beer at the bar, and surveyed the place. There were four pool tables and the action was light. A young man in a T-shirt walked to the bar and ordered another beer. The shirt was green and gray with the words TULANE LAW SCHOOL stamped across the front with what appeared to be an inmate identification number under the words.
   Verheek spoke without hesitating. “You a law student?”
   The young man glanced at him while pulling money from his jeans. “Afraid so.”
   “Did you know Thomas Callahan?”
   “Who are you?”
   “FBI. Callahan was a friend of mine.”
   The student sipped the beer and was suspicious. “I was in his con law class.”
   Bingo! So was Darby. Verheek tried to appear uninterested. “Do you know Darby Shaw?”
   “Why do you want to know?”
   “We need to talk to her. That’s all.”
   “Who is we?” The student was even more suspicious. He took a step closer to Gavin as if he wanted some hard answers.
   “FBI,” Verheek said nonchalantly.
   “You got a badge or something?”
   “Sure,” he said as he pulled a card from his pocket. The student read it carefully, then handed it back. “You’re a lawyer, not an agent.”
   This was a very valid point, and the lawyer knew he would lose his job if his boss knew he was asking questions and in general impersonating an agent. “Yes, I’m a lawyer. Callahan and I were in law school together.”
   “Then why do you want to see Darby Shaw?”
   The bartender had eased closer and was eavesdropping.
   “Do you know her?”
   “I don’t know,” the student said, and it was obvious he did in fact know her but was not about to talk. “Is she in trouble?”
   “No. You know her, don’t you?”
   “Maybe. Maybe not.”
   “Look, what’s your name?”
   “Show me a badge, and I’ll tell you my name.”
   Gavin took a long drink from the bottle and smiled at the bartender. “I need to see her, okay? It’s very important. I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, ask her to call.” He offered the card to the student, who looked at it and walked away.


   At three, he unlocked the door to his room, and checked the phone. No messages. Wherever Darby was, she still had not called. Assuming, of course, she was still alive.


   Garcia called for the last time. Grantham took the call before dawn Saturday, less than two hours before they were to meet for the first time. He was backing out, he said. The time was not right. If the story broke, then some very powerful lawyers and their very rich clients would fall hard, and these people were not accustomed to falling, and they would take people with them. And Garcia might get hurt. He had a wife and little daughter. He had a job that he could endure because the money was great. Why take chances? He had done nothing wrong. His conscience was clear.
   “Then why do you keep calling me?” Grantham asked.
   “I think I know why they were killed. I’m not certain, but I’ve got a good idea. I saw something, okay?”
   “We’ve had this conversation for a week now, Garcia. You saw something, or you have something. And it’s all useless unless you show it to me.” Grantham opened a file and took out the five by sevens of the man on the phone. “You’re driven by a sense of morality, Garcia. That’s why you want to talk.”
   “Yeah, but there’s a chance they know that I know. They’ve been treating me funny, as if they want to ask if I saw it. But they can’t ask because they’re not sure.”
   “These are the guys in your firm?”
   “Yeah. No. Wait. How’d you know I was in a firm? I haven’t told you that.”
   “It’s easy. You go to work too early to be a government lawyer. You’re in one of those two-hundred-lawyer firms where they expect the associates and junior partners to work a hundred hours a week. The first time you called me you said you were on the way to the office, and it was something like 5 A.M.”
   “Well, well, what else do you know?”
   “Not much. We’re playing games, Garcia. If you’re not willing to talk, then hang up and leave me alone. I’m losing sleep.”
   “Sweet dreams.” Garcia hung up. Grantham stared at the receiver.


   Three times in the past eight years he had unlisted his phone number. He lived by the phone, and his biggest stories came out of nowhere over the phone. But after or during each big one, there had been a thousand insignificant ones from sources who felt compelled to call at all hours of the night with their hot little morsels. He was known as a reporter who would face a firing squad before revealing a source, so they called and called and called. He’d get sick of it, and get a new, unlisted number. Then hit a dry spell. Then rush to get back in the D.C. directory.
   He was there now. Gray S. Grantham. The only one in the book. They could get him at work twelve hours a day, but it was so much more secretive and private to call him at home, especially at odd hours when he was trying to sleep.
   He fumed over Garcia for thirty minutes, then fell asleep. He was in a rhythm and dead to the world when it rang again. He found it in the darkness. “Hello.”
   It was not Garcia. It was a female. “Is this Gray Grantham with the Washington Post?”
   “It is. And who are you?”
   “Are you still on the story about Rosenberg and Jensen?”
   He sat in the darkness and stared at the clock. Five-thirty. “It’s a big story. We’ve got a lot of people on it, but, yes, I’m investigating.”
   “Have you heard of the pelican brief?”
   He breathed deeply and tried to think. “The pelican brief. No. What is it?”
   “It’s a harmless little theory about who killed them. It was taken to Washington last Sunday by a man named Thomas Callahan, a professor of law at Tulane. He gave it to a friend with the FBI, and it was passed around. Things snowballed, and Callahan was killed in a car bombing Wednesday night in New Orleans.”
   The lamp was on and he was scribbling. “Where are you calling from?”
   “New Orleans. A pay phone, so don’t bother.”
   “How do you know all this?”

   “I wrote the brief.”
   He was wide awake now, wild-eyed and breathing rapidly. “Okay. If you wrote it, tell me about it.”
   “I don’t want to do it that way, because even if you had a copy you couldn’t run the story.”
   “Try me.”
   “You couldn’t. It’ll take some thorough verification.”
   “Okay. We’ve got the Klan, the terrorist Khamel, the Underground Army, the Aryans, the—”
   “Nope. None of the above. They’re a bit obvious. The brief is about an obscure suspect.”
   He was pacing at the foot of the bed, holding the phone. “Why can’t you tell me who it is?”
   “Maybe later. You seem to have these magical sources. Let’s see what you find.”
   “Callahan will be easy to check out. That’s one phone call. Give me twenty-four hours.”
   “I’ll try to call Monday morning. If we’re gonna do business, Mr. Grantham, you must show me something. The next time I call, tell me something I don’t know.”
   She was at a pay phone in the dark. “Are you in danger?” he asked.
   “I think so. But I’m okay for now.”
   She sounded young, mid-twenties, maybe. She wrote a brief. She knew the law professor. “Are you a lawyer?”
   “No, and don’t spend your time digging after me. You’ve got work to do, Mr. Grantham, or I’ll go elsewhere.”
   “Fine. You need a name.”
   “I’ve got one.”
   “I mean a code name.”
   “You mean like spies and all. Gee, this could be fun.”
   “Either that or give me your real name.”
   “Nice try. Just call me Pelican.”


   His parents were good Irish Catholics, but he had sort of quit many years ago. They were a handsome couple, dignified in mourning, well tanned and dressed. He had seldom mentioned them. They walked hand-in-hand with the rest of the family into Rogers Chapel. His brother from Mobile was shorter and looked much older. Thomas said he had a drinking problem.
   For half an hour, students and faculty had streamed into the small chapel. The game was tonight and there was a nice crowd on campus. A television van was parked in the street. A cameraman kept a respectable distance and shot the front of the chapel. A campus policeman watched him carefully and kept him in place.
   It was odd seeing these law students with dresses and heels and coats and ties. In a dark room on the third floor of Newcomb Hall, the Pelican sat with her face to the window and watched the students mill about and speak softly and finish their cigarettes. Under her chair were four newspapers, already read and discarded. She’d been there for two hours, reading by sunlight and waiting on the service. There was no other place to be. She was certain the bad guys were lurking in the bushes around the chapel, but she was learning patience. She had come early, would stay late, and move in the shadows. If they found her, maybe they would do it quick and it would be over.
   She gripped a wadded paper towel and dried her eyes. It was okay to cry now, but this was the last one. The people were all inside, and the television van left. The paper said it was a memorial service with private burial later. There was no casket inside.
   She had selected this moment to run, to rent a car and drive to Baton Rouge, then jump on the first plane headed to any place except New Orleans. She would get out of the country, perhaps Montreal or Calgary. She would hide there for a year and hope the crime would be solved and the bad guys put away.
   But it was a dream. The quickest route to justice ran smack through her. She knew more than anyone. The Fibbies had circled close, then backed off, and were now chasing who knows who. Verheek had gotten nowhere, and he was close to the Director. She would have to piece it together. Her little brief had killed Thomas, and now they were after her. She knew the identity of the man behind the murders of Rosenberg and Jensen and Callahan, and this knowledge made her rather unique.
   Suddenly, she leaned forward. The tears dried on her cheeks. There he was! The thin man with the narrow face! He was wearing a coat and tie and looked properly mournful as he walked quickly to the chapel. It was him! The man she’d last seen in the lobby of the Sheraton on, when was it, Thursday morning. She’d been talking to Verheek when he strolled suspiciously through.
   He stopped at the door, jerked his head nervously around—he was a klutz, really, a giveaway. He stared for a second at three cars parked innocently on the street, less than fifty yards away. He opened the door, and was in the chapel. Beautiful. The bastards killed him, and now they joined his family and friends for last respects.
   Her nose touched the window. The cars were too far away, but she was certain there was a man in one watching for her. Surely they knew she was not so dumb and so heartbroken as to show up and mourn her lover. They knew that. She had eluded them for two and a half days. The tears were gone.
   Ten minutes later, the thin man came out by himself, lit a cigarette, and strolled with hands stuck deep in his pockets toward the three cars. He was sad. What a guy.
   He walked in front of the cars but did not stop. When he was out of sight, a door opened and a man in a green Tulane sweatshirt emerged from the middle car. He walked down the street after the thin one. He was not thin. He was short, thick, and powerful. A regular stump.
   He disappeared down the sidewalk behind the thin man, behind the chapel. Darby poised on the edge of the folding chair. Within a minute, they emerged on the sidewalk from behind the building. They were together now, whispering, but for only a moment because the thin man peeled off and disappeared down the street. Stump walked quickly to his car and got in. He just sat there, waiting for the service to break up and get one last look at the crowd on the off chance that she was in fact stupid enough to show up.
   It had taken less than ten minutes for the thin man to sneak inside, scan the crowd of, say, two hundred people, and determine she was not there. Perhaps he was looking for the red hair. Or bleached blond. No, it made more sense for them to have people already in there, sitting around prayerfully and looking sad, looking for her or anyone who might resemble her. They could nod or shake or wink at the thin man.
   This place was crawling with them.


   Havana was a perfect sanctuary. It mattered not if ten or a hundred countries had bounties on his throat. Fidel was an admirer and occasional client. They drank together, shared women, and smoked cigars. He had the run of the place—a nice little apartment on Calle de Torre in the old section, a car with a driver, a banker who was a wizard at blitzing money around the world, any size boat he wanted, a military plane if needed, and plenty of young women. He spoke the language and his skin was not pale. He loved the place.
   He had once agreed to kill Fidel, but couldn’t do it. He was in place and two hours away from the murder, but just wouldn’t pull it off. There was too much admiration. It was back in the days when he did not always kill for money. He pulled a double cross, and confessed to Fidel. They faked an ambush, and word spread that the great Khamel had been gunned down in the streets of Havana.
   Never again would he travel by commercial air. The photographs in Paris were embarrassing for such a professional. He was losing his touch—getting careless in the twilight of his career. Got his picture on the front pages in America. How shameful. His client was not pleased.
   The boat was a forty-foot schooner with two crew members and a young woman, all Cubans. She was below in the cabin. He had finished with her a few minutes before they saw the lights of Biloxi. He was all business now, inspecting his raft, packing his bag, saying nothing. The crew members crouched on the deck and stayed away from him.
   At exactly nine, they lowered the raft onto the water. He dropped his bag into it, and was gone. They heard the trolling motor as he disappeared into the blackness of the Sound. They were to remain anchored until dawn, then haul it back to Havana. They held perfect papers declaring them to be Americans, in the event they were discovered and someone began asking questions.
   He eased patiently through the still water, dodging buoy lights and the sight of an occasional small craft. He held perfect papers too, and three weapons in the bag.
   It had been years since he struck twice in one month. After he was allegedly gunned down in Cuba, there had been a five-year drought. Patience was his forte. He averaged one a year.
   And this little victim would go unnoticed. No one would suspect him. It was such a small job, but his client was adamant and he happened to be in the neighborhood, and the money was right, so here he was in another six-foot rubber raft cruising toward a beach, hoping like hell his pal Luke would be there dressed not as a farmer, but a fisherman this time.
   This would be the last for a long time, maybe forever. He had more money than he could ever spend or give away. And he had started making small mistakes.
   He saw the pier in the distance, and moved away from it. He had thirty minutes to waste. He followed the shoreline for a quarter of a mile, then headed for it. Two hundred yards out, he turned off the trolling motor, unhitched it, and dropped it into the water. He lay low in the raft, worked a plastic oar when necessary, and gently guided himself to a dark spot behind a row of cheap brick buildings thirty feet ashore. He stood in two feet of water and ripped holes in the raft with a small pocket-knife. It sank and disappeared. The beach was deserted.
   Luke was alone at the end of the pier. It was exactly eleven, and he was in place with a rod and reel. He wore a white cap, and the bill moved slowly back and forth as he scanned the water in search of the raft. He checked his watch.
   Suddenly a man was beside him, appearing from nowhere like an angel. “Luke?” the man said.
   This was not the code. Luke was startled. He had a gun in the tackle box at his feet, but there was no way. “Sam?” he asked. Maybe he had missed something. Maybe Khamel couldn’t find the pier from the raft.
   “Yes, Luke, it’s me. Sorry about the deviation. Trouble with the raft.”
   Luke’s heart settled and he breathed relief.
   “Where’s the vehicle?” Khamel asked.
   Luke glanced at him ever so quickly. Yes, it was Khamel, and he was staring at the ocean behind dark glasses.
   Luke nodded at a building. “Red Pontiac next to the liquor store.”
   “How far to New Orleans?”
   “Half an hour,” Luke said as he reeled in nothing.
   Khamel stepped back, and hit him twice at the base of the neck. Once with each hand. The vertebrae burst and snapped the spinal cord. Luke fell hard and moaned once. Khamel watched him die, then found the keys in a pocket. He kicked the corpse off into the water.


   Edwin Sneller or whatever his name was did not open the door, but quietly slid the key under it. Khamel picked it up, and opened the door to the next room. He walked in, and moved quickly to the bed where he placed his bag, then to the window where the curtains were open and the river was in the distance. He pulled the curtains together, and studied the lights of the French Quarter below.
   He walked to the phone and punched Sneller’s number.
   “Tell me about her,” Khamel said softly to the floor.
   “There are two photos in the briefcase.”
   Khamel opened it and removed the photos. “I’ve got them.”
   “They’re numbered, one and two. One we got from the law school yearbook. It’s about a year old, and the most current we have. It’s a blowup from a tiny picture, so we lost a lot of detail. The other photo is two years old. We lifted it from a yearbook at Arizona State.”
   Khamel held both pictures. “A beautiful woman.”
   “Yes. Quite beautiful. All that lovely hair is gone, though. Thursday night she paid for a hotel room with a credit card. We barely missed her Friday morning. We found long strands of hair on the floor and a small sample of something we now know to be black hair color. Very black.”
   “What a shame.”
   “We haven’t seen her since Wednesday night. She’s proven to be elusive—credit card for a room Wednesday, credit card at another hotel Thursday, then nothing from last night. She withdrew five thousand in cash from her checking account Friday afternoon, so the trail has become cold.”
   “Maybe she’s gone.”
   “Could be, but I don’t think so. Someone was in her apartment last night. We’ve got the place wired, and we were late by two minutes.”
   “Moving sort of slow, aren’t you?”
   “It’s a big town. We’ve camped out at the airport and train station. We’re watching her mother’s house in Idaho. No sign. I think she’s still here.”
   “Where would she be?”
   “Moving around, changing hotels, using pay phones, staying away from the usual places. The New Orleans police are looking for her. They talked to her after the bomb Wednesday, then lost her. We’re looking, they’re looking, she’ll turn up.”
   “What happened with the bomb?”
   “Very simple. She didn’t get in the car.”
   “Who made the bomb?”
   Sneller hesitated. “Can’t say.”
   Khamel smiled slightly as he took some street maps from the briefcase. “Tell me about the maps.”
   “Oh, just a few points of interest around town. Her place, his place, the law school, the hotels she’s been to, the bomb site, a few little bars she enjoys as a student.”
   “She’s stayed in the Quarter so far.”
   “She’s smart. There are a million places to hide.”
   Khamel picked up the most recent photo, and sat on the other bed. He liked this face. Even with short dark hair, it would be an intriguing face. He could kill it, but it would not be pleasant.
   “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” he said, almost to himself.
   “Yes. It’s a shame.”