Gavin Verheek had been a tired old man when he arrived in New Orleans, and after two nights of bar-hopping he was drained and weakened. He had hit the first bar not long after the burial, and for seven hours had sipped beer with the young and restless while talking of torts and contracts and Wall Street firms and other things he despised. He knew he shouldn’t tell strangers he was FBI. He wasn’t FBI. There was no badge.
   He prowled five or six bars Saturday night. Tulane lost again, and after the game the bars filled with rowdies. Things got hopeless, and he quit at midnight.
   He was sleeping hard with his shoes on when the phone rang. He lunged for it. “Hello! Hello!”
   “Gavin?” she asked.
   “Darby! Is this you?”
   “Who else?”
   “Why haven’t you called before now?”
   “Please, don’t start asking a bunch of stupid questions. I’m at a pay phone, so no funny stuff.”
   “Come on, Darby. I swear you can trust me.”
   “Okay, I trust you. Now what?”
   He looked at his watch, and began untying his shoelaces. “Well, you tell me. What’s next? How long do you plan to hide in New Orleans?”
   “How do you know I’m in New Orleans?”
   He paused for a second.
   “I’m in New Orleans,” she said. “And I assume you want me to meet with you, and become close friends, then come in, as you say, and trust you guys to protect me forever.”
   “That’s correct. You’ll be dead in a matter of days if you don’t.”
   “Get right to the point, don’t you?”
   “Yes. You’re playing games and you don’t know what you’re doing.”
   “Who’s after me, Gavin?”
   “Could be a number of people.”
   “Who are they?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “Now you’re playing games, Gavin. How can I trust you if you won’t talk to me?”
   “Okay. I think it’s safe to say your little brief hit someone in the gut. You guessed right, the wrong people learned of the brief, and now Thomas is dead. And they’ll kill you the instant they find you.”
   “We know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen, don’t we, Gavin?”
   “I think we do.”
   “Then why doesn’t the FBI do something?”
   “We may be in the midst of a cover-up.”
   “Bless you for saying that. Bless you.”
   “I could lose my job.”
   “Who would I tell, Gavin? Who’s covering up what?”
   “I’m not sure. We were very interested in the brief until the White House pressed hard, now we’ve dismissed it.”
   “I can understand that. Why do they think they can kill me and it will be kept quiet?”
   “I can’t answer that. Maybe they think you know more.”
   “Can I tell you something? Moments after the bomb, while Thomas was in the car burning and I was semiconscious, a cop named Rupert took me to his car and put me inside. Another cop with cowboy boots and jeans started asking me questions. I was sick and in shock. They disappeared, Rupert and his cowboy, and they never returned. They were not cops, Gavin. They watched the bomb, and went to plan B when I wasn’t in the car. I didn’t know it, but I was probably a minute or two away from a bullet in the head.”
   Verheek listened with his eyes closed. “What happened to them?”
   “Not sure. I think they got scared when the real cops swarmed on the scene. They vanished. I was in their car, Gavin. They had me.”
   “You have to come in, Darby. Listen to me.”
   “Do you remember our phone chat Thursday morning when I suddenly saw a face that looked familiar and I described it to you?”
   “Of course.”
   “That face was at the memorial service yesterday, along with some friends.”
   “Where were you?”
   “Watching. He walked in a few minutes late, stayed ten minutes, then sneaked out and met with Stump.”
   “Stump?”
   “Yes, he’s one of the gang. Stump, Rupert, Cowboy, and the Thin Man. Great characters. I’m sure there are others, but I haven’t met them yet.”
   “The next meeting will be the last, Darby. You have about forty-eight hours to live.”
   “We’ll see. How long will you be in town?”
   “A few days. I’d planned to stay until I found you.”
   “Here I am. I may call you tomorrow.”
   Verheek breathed deeply. “Okay, Darby. Whatever you say. Just be careful.”
   She hung up. He threw the phone across the room, and cursed it.


   Two blocks away and fifteen floors up, Khamel stared at the television and mumbled rapidly to himself. It was a movie about people in a big city. They spoke English, his third language, and he repeated every word in his best generic American tongue. He did this for hours. He had absorbed the language while hiding in Belfast, and in the past twenty years had watched thousands of American movies. His favorite was Three Days of the Condor. He watched it four times before he figured out who was killing whom and why. He could have killed Redford.
   He repeated every word out loud. He had been told his English could pass for that of an American, but one slip, one tiny mistake, and she would be gone.


   The Volvo was parked in a lot a block and a half from its owner, who paid one hundred dollars a month for the space and for what he thought was security. They eased through the gate that was supposed to be locked.
   It was a 1986 GL without a security system, and within seconds the driver’s door was open. One sat on the trunk and lit a cigarette. It was almost 4 A.M. Sunday.
   The other one opened a small tool case he kept in his pocket, and went to work on the yuppie car phone that Grantham had been embarrassed to buy. The dome light was enough, and he worked quickly. Easy work. With the receiver open, he installed a tiny transmitter and glued it in place. A minute later, he eased out of the car and squatted at the rear bumper. The one with the cigarette handed him a small black cube, which he stuck under the car to a grille and behind the gas tank. It was a magnetized transmitter, and it would send signals for six days before it died and needed replacing.
   They were gone in less than seven minutes. Monday, as soon as he was spotted entering the Post building on Fifteenth, they would enter his apartment and fix his phones.


   Her second night in the bed and breakfast was better than the first. She slept until mid-morning. Maybe she was used to it now. She stared at the curtains over the tiny window and determined that there had been no nightmares, no movements in the dark with guns and knives emerging and attacking. It was a thick, heavy sleep, and she studied the curtains for a long time while the brain woke up.
   She tried to be disciplined about her thinking. This was her fourth day as the Pelican, and to see number five she would have to think like a fastidious killer. It was day number four of the rest of her life. She was supposed to be dead.
   But after the eyes opened, and she realized she was indeed alive and safe, and the door wasn’t squeaking and the floor wasn’t cracking, and there was no gunman lurking in the closet, her first thought was always of Thomas. The shock of his death was fading, and she found it easier to put aside the sound of the explosion and the roar of the fire. She knew he had been blown to pieces and killed instantly. She knew he did not suffer.
   So she thought of other things, like the feel of him next to her, and his whispering and snickering when they were in bed and the sex was over and he wanted to cuddle. He was a cuddler, and he wanted to play and kiss and caress after the love-making. And giggle. He loved her madly, had fallen hard, and for the first time in his life could be silly with a woman. Many times in the middle of his lectures, she had thought of his cooing and snickering, and bit her lip to keep from smiling.
   She loved him too. And it hurt so badly. She wanted to stay in bed and cry for a week. The day after her father’s funeral, a psychiatrist had explained that the soul needs a brief, very intense period of grieving, then it moves to the next phase. But it must have the pain—it must suffer without restraint before it can properly move on. She took his advice, and grieved without courage for two weeks, then got tired of it and moved to the next stage. It worked.
   But it wasn’t working with Thomas. She couldn’t scream and throw things the way she wanted. Rupert and Thin Man and the rest of the boys were denying her a healthy mourning.
   After a few minutes of Thomas, she thought of them next. Where would they be today? Where could she go without being seen? After two nights in this place, should she find another room? Yes, she would do that. After dark. She would call and reserve a room at another tiny guest house. Where were they staying? Were they patrolling the streets hoping to simply bump into her? Did they know where she was at this moment? No. She would be dead. Did they know she was now a blonde?
   The hair got her out of bed. She walked to the mirror over the desk, and looked at herself. It was even shorter now, and very white. Not a bad job. She had worked on it for three hours last night. If she lived another two days, she would cut some more and go back to black. If she lived another week, she might be bald.
   A hunger pain hit, and for a second she thought about food. She was not eating, and this would have to change. It was almost ten. Oddly, this bed and breakfast didn’t cook on Sunday mornings. She would venture out to find food and a Sunday Post, and to see if they could catch her now that she was a butch blonde.
   She showered quickly, and the hair took less than a minute. No makeup. She put on a new pair of Army fatigues and a new flight jacket, and she was ready for battle. The eyes were covered with aviator shades.
   Although she had made a few entrances, she had not exited a building through the front door in four days. She crept through the dark kitchen, unlocked the rear door, and stepped into the alley behind the little inn. It was cool enough to wear the flight jacket without being suspicious. Silly, she thought. In the French Quarter, she could wear the hide and head of a polar bear and not appear suspicious. She walked briskly through the alley with her hands deep in the fatigues and her eyes darting behind the shades.
   He saw her when she stepped onto the sidewalk next to Burgundy Street. The hair under the cap was different, but she was still five-eight and she couldn’t change that. The legs were still long and she walked a certain way, and after four days he could pick her out of a crowd regardless of the face and hair. The cowboy boots snakeskin with pointed toes hit the sidewalk and started following.
   She was a smart girl, turning every corner, changing streets every block, walking quickly but not too fast. He figured she was headed for Jackson Square, where there was a crowd on Sundays and she thought she could disappear. She could stroll about with the tourists and the locals, maybe eat a bite, enjoy the sun, pick up a paper.
   Darby casually lit a cigarette and puffed as she walked. She could not inhale. She tried three days ago, and got dizzy. Such a nasty habit. How ironic it would be if she lived through all this only to die from lung cancer. Please, let her die of cancer.
   He was sitting at a table in a crowded sidewalk café at the corner of St. Peter and Chartres, and he was less than ten feet away when she saw him. A split second later, he saw her, and she probably would have made it if she hadn’t hesitated for a step and swallowed hard when she saw him. He saw her, and probably would have been only suspicious, but the slight hesitation and the curious look gave her away. She kept walking, but faster now.
   It was Stump. He was on his feet and weaving through the tables when she lost sight of him. At ground level, he was anything but chubby. He seemed quick and muscular. She lost him for a second on Chartres as she ducked between the arches of St. Louis Cathedral. The church was open, and she thought maybe she should get inside, as if it would be a sanctuary and he would not kill her there. Yes, he would kill her there, or on the street, or in a crowd. Anywhere he caught her. He was back there, and Darby wanted to know how fast he was coming. Was he just walking real fast and trying to play it cool? Was he sort of jogging? Or was he barreling down the sidewalk preparing to make a flying tackle as soon as he caught sight of her? She kept moving.
   She hung a left on St. Ann, crossed the street, and was almost to Royal when she took a quick glance behind her. He was coming. He was on the other side of the street, but very much in pursuit.
   The nervous look over the shoulder nailed her. It was a dead giveaway, and he was into a jog now.
   Get to Bourbon Street, she decided. Kickoff was four hours away, and the Saints fans were out in force celebrating before the game because there would be little to celebrate afterward. She turned on Royal and ran hard for a few steps, then slowed to a fast walk. He turned on Royal and was trotting. He was poised to break and run hard at any second. Darby moved to the center of the street where a group of football rowdies were moving around, killing time. She turned left on Dumaine, and started running. Bourbon was ahead and there were people everywhere.
   She could hear him now. No sense looking anymore. He was back there, running and gaining. When she turned onto Bourbon, Mr. Stump was fifty feet behind her, and the race was over. She saw her angels as they made a noisy exit from a bar. Three large, overweight young men dressed in a wild assortment of black and gold Saints garb stepped into the middle of the street just as Darby ran to them.
   “Help!” she screamed wildly and pointed at Stump. “Help me! That man is after me! He’s trying to rape me!”
   Well, hell, now, sex in the streets of New Orleans is not at all uncommon, but they’d be damned if this girl was going to be abused.
   “Please help me!” she screamed pitifully. Suddenly, the street was silent. Everyone froze, including Stump, who stopped for a step or two, then rushed forward. The three Saints stepped in front of him with folded arms and glowing eyes. It was over in seconds. Stump used both hands at once—a right to the throat of the first one, and a vicious blow to the mouth of the second. They squealed and fell hard. Number three was not about to run. His two buddies were hurt and this upset him. He would have been a piece of cake for Stump, but number one fell on Stump’s right foot and this threw him off. As he yanked his foot away, Mr. Benjamin Chop of Thibodaux, Louisiana, number three, kicked him squarely in the crotch, and Stump was history. As Darby eased back into the crowd, she heard him cry in pain.
   While he was falling, Mr. Chop kicked him in the ribs. Number two, with blood all over his face, charged wild-eyed into Stump, and the massacre was on. He curled around his hands, which were curled around his severely damaged testicles, and they kicked him and cursed him without mercy until someone yelled, “Cops,” and this saved his life. Mr. Chop and number two helped number one to his feet, and the Saints were last seen darting into a bar. Stump made it to his feet, and crawled away like a dog hit by a Mack truck but still alive and determined to die at home.
   She hid in a dark corner of a pub on Decatur, drinking coffee then a beer, coffee then a beer. Her hands shook and her stomach flipped. The po’boys smelled delicious, but she could not eat. After three beers in three hours, she ordered a plate of boiled shrimp and switched to spring water.
   The alcohol had calmed her, and the shrimp settled her. She was safe in here, she thought, so why not watch the game and just sit here, maybe, until it closed.
   The pub was packed at kickoff. They watched the wide screen above the bar, and got drunk. She was a Saints fan now. She hoped her three buddies were okay and enjoying the game. The crowd yelled and cursed the Redskins.
   Darby stayed in her little corner until the game was long over, then slid into the darkness.

   At some point in the fourth quarter, with the Saints down by four field goals, Edwin Sneller hung up the phone and turned off the television. He stretched his legs, then returned to the phone and called Khamel next door.
   “Listen to my English,” the assassin said. “Tell me if you hear a trace of an accent.”
   “Okay. She’s here,” Sneller said. “One of our men saw her this morning at Jackson Square. He followed her for three blocks, then lost her.”
   “How did he lose her?”
   “Doesn’t matter, does it? She got away, but she’s here. Her hair is very short and almost white.”
   “White?”
   Sneller hated to repeat himself, especially to this mongrel.
   “He said it was not blond but white, and she was wearing green Army pants and a brown bomber jacket. Somehow she recognized him, and took off.”
   “How would she recognize him? Has she seen him before?”
   These idiot questions. It was hard to believe he was considered Superman. “I can’t answer that.”
   “How’s my English?”
   “Perfect. There’s a small card under your door. You need to see it.”
   Khamel laid the phone on a pillow and walked to the door. In a second he was back on the phone. “Who is this?”
   “The name is Verheek. Dutch, but he’s an American. Works for the FBI in Washington. Evidently, he and Callahan were friends. They finished law school together at Georgetown, and Verheek was an honorary pallbearer at the memorial service yesterday. Last night he was hanging out in a bar not far from the campus, and was asking questions about the girl. Two hours ago, one of our men was in the same bar posing as an FBI agent, and he struck up a conversation with the bartender, who turns out to be a law student who knows the girl. They watched football and talked for a while, then the kid produced the card. Look on the back. He’s in room 1909 at the Hilton.”
   “That’s a five-minute walk.” The street maps were scattered on one bed.
   “Yes. We’ve made a few phone calls to Washington. He’s not an agent, just a lawyer. He knew Callahan, and he might know the girl. It’s obvious he’s trying to find her.”
   “She would talk to him, wouldn’t she?”
   “Probably.”
   “How’s my English?”
   “Perfect.”


   Khamel waited an hour and left the hotel. With the coat and tie, he was just an average joe strolling along Canal at dusk headed for the river. He carried a large gym bag and smoked a cigarette, and five minutes later entered the lobby of the Hilton. He worked his way through the crowd of fans returning from the Dome. The elevator stopped on the twentieth floor, and he walked one flight down to the nineteenth.
   There was no answer at 1909. If the door had opened with the chain locked, he would have apologized and explained he had the wrong room. If the door had opened without the chain and with a fate in the crack, he would have kicked it sharply and been inside. But it did not open.
   His new pal Verheek was probably hanging around a bar, passing out cards, begging kids to talk to him about Darby Shaw. What a nut.
   He knocked again, and while he waited he slid a six-inch plastic ruler between the door and the facing, and worked it gently until the bolt clicked. Locks were minor nuisances for Khamel. Without a key, he could open a locked car and start the engine in less than thirty seconds.
   Inside, he locked the door behind him, and placed his bag on the bed. Like a surgeon, he picked the gloves from a pocket and pulled them tightly over his fingers. He laid a .22 and silencer on the table.
   The phone was quick work. He plugged the recorder into the jack under the bed, where it could sit for weeks before it was noticed. He called the weather station twice to test the recorder. Perfect.
   His new pal Verheek was a slob. Most of the clothes in the room were dirty and simply thrown in the direction of the suit case sitting on a table. He had not unpacked. A cheap garment bag hung in the closet with one solitary shirt.
   Khamel covered his tracks and settled low in the closet. He was a patient man, and he could wait for hours. He held the .22 just in case this clown happened to barge into the closet and he had to kill him with bullets. If not, he would just listen.


   Gavin quit the bars Sunday. He was getting nowhere. She had called him, and she was not hanging around those places, so what the hell? He was drinking too much and eating too much, and he was tired of New Orleans. He already had a flight booked for late Monday afternoon, and if she didn’t call again he was finished playing detective.
   He couldn’t find her, and it wasn’t his fault. Cabdrivers got lost in this city. Voyles would be screaming by noon. He had done his best.
   He was stretched on the bed in nothing but boxer shorts, flipping through a magazine and ignoring the television. It was almost eleven. He would wait on her until twelve, then try to sleep.
   It rang at exactly eleven. He pushed a button and remotely killed the television. “Hello.”
   It was her. “It’s me, Gavin.”
   “So you’re alive.”
   “Barely.”
   He sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s happened?”
   “They saw me today, and one of their goons, my friend Stump, chased me through the Quarter. You haven’t met Stump, but he’s the one who watched you and everyone else walk into the chapel.”
   “But you got away.”
   “Yeah. A small miracle, but I got away.”
   “What happened to Stump?”
   “He was mortally wounded. He’s probably lying in a bed somewhere wearing an ice pack in his shorts. He was just a few steps from me when he picked a fight with the wrong guys. I’m scared, Gavin.”
   “Did he follow you from somewhere?”
   “No. We just sort of met on the street.”
   Verheek paused a second. Her voice was shaking, but under control. She was losing her cool. “Look, Darby. I’ve got a flight out of here tomorrow afternoon. I have this little job and my boss expects me to be at the office. So I can’t hang around New Orleans for the next month hoping you don’t get killed and hoping you come to your senses and trust me. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I think you need to go with me.”
   “Go where?”
   “To Washington. To my house. To someplace other than where you are.”
   “What happens then?”
   “Well, you get to live, for one thing. I’ll plead with the Director, and I promise you’ll be safe. We’ll do something, dammit. Anything beats this.”
   “What makes you think we can just fly out of here?”
   “Because we’ll have three FBI agents surrounding you. Because I’m not a complete dumbass. Look, Darby, tell me where you want to meet right now, and within fifteen minutes I’ll come get you with three agents. These guys have guns, and they’re not afraid of your little Stump and his pals. We’ll get you out of the city tonight, and take you to Washington tomorrow. I promise you’ll personally meet my boss, the Honorable F. Denton Voyles, tomorrow, and we’ll go from there.”
   “I thought the FBI was not involved.”
   “It’s not involved, but it may be.”
   “Then where do the three agents come from?”
   “I’ve got friends.”
   She thought for a moment, and her voice was suddenly stronger. “Behind your hotel is a place called Riverwalk. It’s a shopping area with restaurants and—”
   “I spent two hours there this afternoon.”
   “Good. On the second level is a clothing store called Frenchmen’s Bend.”
   “I saw it.”
   “At precisely noon tomorrow, I want you to stand by the entrance, and wait for five minutes.”
   “Come on, Darby. You won’t be alive at noon tomorrow. Enough of this cat and mouse.”
   “Just do as I say, Gavin. We’ve never met, so I have no idea what you look like. Wear a black shirt of some type and a red baseball cap.”
   “Where might I find such articles?”
   “Just get them.”
   “Okay, okay, I’ll have them. I guess you want me to pick my nose with a shovel or something. This is silly.”
   “I’m not in a silly mood, and if you don’t shut up we’ll call it off.”
   “It’s your neck.”
   “Please, Gavin.”
   “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you say. That’s a very busy spot to be.”
   “Yes, it is. I just feel safer in a crowd. Stand by the door for five minutes or so, and hold a folded newspaper. I’ll be watching. After five minutes, walk inside the store, and go to the right rear corner where there’s a rack of safari jackets. Browse around a bit, and I’ll find you.”
   “And what might you be wearing?”
   “Don’t worry about me.”
   “Fine. Then what do we do?”
   “You and I, and only you and I, will leave the city. I don’t want anyone else to know of this. Do you understand?”
   “No, I don’t understand. I can arrange security.”
   “No, Gavin. I’m the boss, okay? No one else. Forget your three agent friends. Agreed?”
   “Agreed. How do you propose we leave the city?”
   “I’ve got a plan for that too.”
   “I don’t like any of your plans, Darby. These thugs are breathing down your neck, and now you’re getting me in the middle of it. This is not what I wanted. It’s much safer to do it my way. Safer for you, safer for me.”
   “But you’ll be there at noon, won’t you?”
   He stood by the bed and spoke with his eyes closed. “Yes. I’ll be there. I just hope you make it.”
   “How tall are you?”
   “Five-ten.”
   “How much do you weigh?”
   “I was afraid of this. I usually lie, you know. Two hundred, but I plan to lose it. I swear.”
   “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gavin.”
   “I hope I see you, dear.”
   She was gone. He hung up. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled to the walls. “Son of a bitch!” He walked along the end of the bed a few times, then to the bathroom, where he closed the door and turned on the shower.
   He cussed her in the shower for ten minutes, then stepped out, and dried himself. It was more like two hundred and fifteen pounds, and all of it was situated badly on the five-nine frame. It was painful to look at. Here he was, about to meet this gorgeous woman who suddenly trusted him with her life, and what a slob he was.
   He opened the door. The room was dark. Dark? He had left on the lights. What the hell? He headed for the switch next to the dresser.
   The first blow crushed his larynx. It was a perfect blow that came from the side, somewhere near the wall. He grunted painfully and fell to one knee, which made the second blow so easy, like an ax on a fat log. It hit like a rock at the base of the skull, and Gavin was dead.
   Khamel flipped on a light, and looked at the pitiful nude figure frozen on the floor. He was not one to admire his work. He didn’t want carpet burns, so he lifted the pudgy corpse onto his shoulders and laid it across the bed. Working quickly without any wasted motion, Khamel turned on the television and raised it to full volume, unzipped his bag, removed a cheap .25 caliber automatic, and placed it precisely on the right temple of the late Gavin Verheek. He covered the gun and the head with two pillows, and pulled the trigger. Now the critical part—he took one pillow and placed it under the head, threw the other one on the floor, and carefully curled the fingers of the right hand around the pistol, leaving it twelve inches from the head.
   He took the recorder from under the bed, and ran the telephone wire directly into the wall. He punched a button, listened, and there she was. He turned off the television.
   Every job was different. He had once stalked his prey for three weeks in Mexico City, then caught him in bed with two prostitutes. It was a dumb mistake, and during his career he had been assisted by numerous dumb mistakes by the opposition. This guy was a dumb mistake, a stupid lawyer pilfering around running his mouth, passing out cards with his room number on the back. He had stuck his nose into the world of big-league killing, and look at him now.
   With a little luck, the cops would look around the room for a few minutes and declare it to be another suicide. They would go through the motions and ask themselves a couple of questions they could not answer, but there were always some of those. Because he was an important FBI lawyer, an autopsy would be done in a day or so, and probably by Tuesday an examiner would suddenly discover it was not a suicide.
   By Tuesday, the girl would be dead and he would be in Managua.

   His usual, official sources at the White House denied any knowledge of the pelican brief. Sarge had never heard of it. Long-shot phone calls to the FBI produced nothing. A friend at Justice denied ever hearing about it. He dug all weekend, and had nothing to show for it. The story about Callahan was verified when he found a copy of the New Orleans paper. When her call came in at the newsroom Monday, he had nothing fresh to tell her. But at least she called.
   The Pelican said she was at a pay phone, so don’t bother.
   “I’m still digging,” he said. “If there’s such a brief in town, it’s being closely protected.”
   “I assure you it’s there, and I understand why it’s being protected.”
   “I’m sure you can tell me more.”
   “Lots more. The brief almost got me killed yesterday, so I may be ready to talk sooner than I thought. I need to spill my guts while I’m still alive.”
   “Who’s trying to kill you?”
   “Same people who killed Rosenberg and Jensen, and Thomas Callahan.”
   “Do you know their names?”
   “No, but I’ve seen at least four of them since Wednesday. They’re here in New Orleans, snooping around, hoping I’ll do something stupid and they can kill me.”
   “How many people know about the pelican brief?”
   “Good question. Callahan took it to the FBI, and I think from there it went to the White House where it evidently caused quite a fuss, and from there who knows. Two days after he handed it to the FBI, Callahan was dead. I, of course, was supposed to have been killed with him.”
   “Were you with him?”
   “I was close, but not close enough.”
   “So you’re the unidentified female on the scene?”
   “That’s how the paper described me.”
   “Then the police have your name?”
   “My name is Darby Shaw. I am a second-year law student at Tulane. Thomas Callahan was my professor and lover. I wrote the brief, gave it to him, and you know the rest. Are you getting all this?”
   Grantham scribbled furiously. “Yes. I’m listening.”
   “I’m rather tired of the French Quarter, and I plan to leave today. I’ll call you from somewhere tomorrow. Do you have access to presidential campaign disclosure forms?”
   “It’s public record.”
   “I know that. But how quickly can you get the information?”
   “What information?”
   “A list of all major contributors to the President’s last election.”
   “That’s not difficult. I can have it by this afternoon.”
   “Do that, and I’ll call you in the morning.”
   “Okay. Do you have a copy of the brief?”
   She hesitated. “No, but it’s memorized.”
   “And you know who’s doing the killing?”
   “Yes, and as soon as I tell you, they’ll put your name on the hit list.”
   “Tell me now.”
   “Let’s take it slow. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
   Grantham listened hard, then hung up. He took his notepad and zigzagged through the maze of desks and people to the glass office of his editor, Smith Keen. Keen was a hale and hearty type with an open-door policy that ensured chaos in his office. He was finishing a phone chat when Grantham barged in and closed the door.
   “That door stays open,” Keen said sharply.
   “We have to talk, Smith.”
   “We’ll talk with the door open. Open the damned door.”
   “I’ll open it in just a second.” Grantham spoke with both palms facing the editor. Yes, it was serious. “Let’s talk.”
   “Okay. What is it?”
   “It’s big, Smith.”
   “I know it’s big. You shut the damned door, so I know it’s big.”
   “I just finished my second phone conversation with a young lady by the name of Darby Shaw, and she knows who killed Rosenberg and Jensen.”
   Keen sat slowly and glared at Grantham. “Yes, son, that’s big. But how do you know? How does she know? What can you prove?”
   “I don’t have a story yet, Smith, but she’s talking to me. Read this.” Grantham handed over a copy of the newspaper account of Callahan’s death. Keen read it slowly.
   “Okay. Who’s Callahan?”
   “One week ago today, he handed a little paper known as the pelican brief to the FBI here in town. Evidently, the brief implicates an obscure person in the killings. The brief gets passed around, then sent to the White House, then beyond that no one knows. Two days later, Callahan cranks his Porsche for the last time. Darby Shaw claims to be the unidentified female mentioned there. She was with Callahan, and was supposed to die with him.”
   “Why was she supposed to die?”
   “She wrote the brief, Smith. Or she claims she did.”
   Keen sank deeper into his seat and placed his feet on the desk. He studied the photo of Callahan. “Where’s the brief?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “What’s in it?”
   “Don’t know that either.”
   “Then we don’t have anything, do we?”
   “Not yet. But what if she tells me everything that’s in it?”
   “And when will she do this?”
   Grantham hesitated. “Soon, I think. Real soon.”
   Keen shook his head and threw the copy on the desk. “If we had the brief, we’d have a helluva story, Gray, but we couldn’t run it. There’s gotta be some heavy, painful, flawless, and accurate verification before we can run it.”
   “But I’ve got the green light?”
   “Yeah, but you keep me posted every hour. Don’t write a word until we talk.”
   Grantham smiled and opened the door.


   This was not forty-bucks-an-hour work. Not even thirty, or twenty. Croft knew he’d be lucky to squeeze fifteen out of Grantham for this needle-in-the-haystack Mickey Mouse crap. If he’d had other work, he’d have told Grantham to find someone else, or better yet, do it himself.
   But things had been slow, and he could do a lot worse than fifteen bucks an hour. He finished a joint in the last stall, flushed it, and opened the door. He stuck the dark sunglasses over his ears, and entered the hallway that led to the atrium where four escalators carried a thousand lawyers up to their little rooms, where they would spend the day bitching and threatening by the hour. He had Garcia’s face memorized. He was even dreaming of this kid with the bright face and good looks, the slim physique draped with an expensive suit. He would know him if he saw him.
   He stood by a pillar, holding a newspaper and trying to watch everyone from behind the dark shades. Lawyers everywhere, scurrying upward with their smug little faces and carrying their smug little attache cases. Man, how he hated lawyers. Why did they all dress alike? Dark suits. Dark shoes. Dark faces. An occasional nonconformist with a daring little bow tie. Where did they all come from? Shortly after his arrest with the drugs, the first lawyers had been a group of angry mouthpieces hired by the Post. Then he hired his own, an overpriced moron who couldn’t find the courtroom. Then, the prosecutor was of course a lawyer. Lawyers, lawyers.
   Two hours in the morning, two hours at lunch, two hours during the evening, and then Grantham would have another building for him to patrol. Ninety bucks a day was cheap, and he would give this up as soon as he got a better deal. He told Grantham this was hopeless, just shooting in the dark. Grantham agreed, but said to keep shooting. It’s all they could do. He said Garcia was scared and wouldn’t call anymore. They had to find him.
   In his pocket he had two photos just in case, and from the directory he had made a list of the firms in the building. It was a long list. The building had twelve floors filled mainly with firms filled with nothing but these fancy little esquires. He was in a den of snakes.
   By nine-thirty the rush was over, and some of the faces looked familiar coming back down the escalators, headed no doubt for the courtrooms and agencies and commissions. Croft eased through the revolving doors, and wiped his feet on the sidewalk.


   Four blocks away, Fletcher Coal paced in front of the President’s desk and listened intently to the phone in his ear. He frowned, then closed his eyes, then glared at the President as if to say, “Bad news, Chief. Really bad news.” The President held a letter and peered at Coal over his reading glasses. Coal’s pacing back and forth like Der Führer really irritated him, and he made a mental note to say something about it.
   Coal slammed the phone down.
   “Don’t slam the damned phones!” the President said.
   Coal was unfazed. “Sorry. That was Zikman. Gray Grantham called thirty minutes ago, and asked if he had any knowledge of the pelican brief.”
   “Wonderful. Fabulous. How’d he get a copy of it?”
   Coal was still pacing. “Zikman knows nothing about it, so his ignorance was genuine.”
   “His ignorance is always genuine. He’s the dumbest ass on my staff, Fletcher, and I want him gone.”
   “Whatever.” Coal sat in a chair across the desk and folded his hands in a little steeple in front of his chin. He was very deep in thought, and the President tried to ignore him. They thought for a moment.
   “Voyles leaked it?” the President finally said.
   “Maybe, if it was leaked. Grantham is known for bluffing. We can’t be certain he’s seen the brief. Maybe he heard about it, and he’s fishing.”
   “Maybe, my ass. What if they run some crazy story about that damned thing? What then?” The President slapped his desk and bolted to his feet. “What then, Fletcher? That paper hates me!” He moped to the windows.
   “They can’t run it without another source, and there can’t be another source because there’s no truth to it. It’s a wild idea that’s gone much further than it deserves.”
   The President sulked for a while and stared through the glass. “How did Grantham find out about it?”
   Coal stood and began pacing, but much slower now. He was still painfully in thought. “Who knows. No one here knows about it but you and I. They brought one copy, and it’s locked away in my office. I personally Xeroxed it once, and gave it to Gminski. I swore him to secrecy.”
   The President sneered at the windows.
   Coal continued. “Okay, you’re right. There could be a thousand copies out there by now. But it’s harmless, unless of course our friend actually did these dirty deeds, then—”
   “Then my ass is cooked.”
   “Yes, I would say our asses are cooked.”
   “How much money did we take?”
   “Millions, directly and indirectly.” And legally and illegally, but the President knew little of these transactions and Coal chose to stay quiet.
   The President walked slowly to the sofa. “Why don’t you call Grantham? Pick his brain. See what he knows. If he’s bluffing, it’ll be obvious. What do you think?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “You’ve talked to him before, haven’t you? Everyone knows Grantham.”
   Coal was now pacing behind the sofa. “Yeah, I’ve talked to him. But if I suddenly call out of nowhere, he’ll be suspicious.”
   “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The President paced on one end of the sofa, and Coal on the other.
   “What’s the downside?” the President finally asked.
   “Our friend could be involved. You asked Voyles to back off our friend. Our friend could be exposed by the press. Voyles covers his tail and says you told him to chase other suspects and ignore our friend. The Post goes berserk with another cover-up smear. And we can forget reelection.”
   “Anything else?”
   Coal thought for a second. “Yeah, this is all completely off the wall. The brief is fantasy. Grantham will find nothing, and I’m late for a staff meeting.” He walked to the door. “I’ve got a squash game for lunch. Be back at one.”
   The President watched the door close, and breathed easier. He had eighteen holes planned for the afternoon, so forget the pelican thing. If Coal wasn’t worried, neither was he.
   He punched numbers on his phone, waited patiently, and finally had Bob Gminski on the line. The director of the CIA was a terrible golfer, one of the few the President could humiliate, and he invited him to play this afternoon. Certainly, said Gminski, a man with a thousand things to do but, well, it was the President so he would be delighted to join him.
   “By the way, Bob, what about this pelican thing in New Orleans?”
   Gminski cleared his throat and tried to sound relaxed. “Well, Chief, I told Fletcher Coal Friday that it was very imaginative and a fine work of fiction. I think its author should forget about law school and pursue a career as a novelist. Ha, ha, ha.”
   “Great, Bob. Nothing to it then.”
   “We’re digging.”
   “See you at three.” The President hung up, and went straight for his putter.

   Riverwalk runs for a quarter of a mile along the water, and is always crowded. It is packed with two hundred shops and cafés and restaurants on several levels, most under the same roof, and several with doors leading onto a boardwalk next to the river. It’s at the foot of Poydras Street, a stone’s throw from the Quarter.
   She arrived at eleven, and sipped espresso in the rear of a tiny bistro while trying to read the paper and appear calm. Frenchmen’s Bend was one level down and around a corner. She was nervous, and the espresso didn’t help.
   She had a list in her pocket of things to do, specific steps at specific moments, even words and sentences she had memorized in the event things went terribly wrong and Verheek got out of control. She had slept two hours, and spent the rest of the time with a legal pad diagraming and charting. If she died, it would not be from a lack of preparation.
   She could not trust Gavin Verheek. He was employed by a law enforcement agency that at times operated by its own rules. He took orders from a man with a history of paranoia and dirty tricks. His boss reported to a President in charge of an Administration run by fools. The President had rich, sleazy friends who gave him lots of money.
   But at this moment, dear, there was no one else to trust. After five days and two near misses, she was throwing in the towel.
   New Orleans had lost its allure. She needed help, and if she had to trust cops, the Fibbies were as clean as any.
   Eleven forty-five. She paid for the espresso, waited for a crowd of shoppers, and fell in behind them. There were a dozen people browsing in Frenchmen’s Bend as she walked past the entrance where her friend should be in about ten minutes. She eased into a bookstore two doors down. There were at least three stores in the vicinity from which she could shop and hide and watch the front door of Frenchmen’s Bend. She chose the bookstore because the clerks weren’t pushy and killing time was expected of the customers. She looked at the magazines first, then with three minutes to go she stepped between two rows of cookbooks and watched for Gavin.
   Thomas said he was never on time. An hour late was early for him, but she would give him fifteen minutes and she’d be gone.
   She expected him at precisely noon, and there he was. Black sweatshirt, red baseball cap, folded newspaper. He was a bit thinner than she expected, but he could lose a few pounds. Her heart pounded away. Be cool, she said. Just be cool, dammit.
   She held a cookbook to her eyes and peered over it. He had gray hair and dark skin. The eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. He fidgeted and looked irritated, the way he sounded on the phone. He passed the newspaper from hand to hand, shifted his weight from foot to foot, and glanced around nervously.
   He was okay. She liked the way he looked. He had a vulnerable, nonprofessional manner about him that said he was scared too.
   After five minutes, he walked through the door as he was told, and went to the right rear of the store.


   Khamel had been trained to welcome death. He had been close to it many times, but never afraid of it. And after thirty years of expecting it, nothing, absolutely nothing, made him tense. He got somewhat excited about sex, but that was it. The fidgeting was an act. The jittery little movements were contrived. He’d survived face-offs with men almost as talented as he, and he could certainly handle this little rendezvous with a desperate child. He picked through the safari jackets and tried to appear nervous.
   He had a handkerchief in his pocket, because he suddenly had caught a cold so his voice was a bit thick and scratchy. He had listened to the recording a hundred times, and he was confident he had the inflection and rhythm and slight upper Midwest accent. But Verheek was a bit more nasal—thus, the handkerchief for the cold.
   It was difficult to allow anyone to approach from the rear, but he knew he must. He did not see her. She was behind him but very close when she said, “Gavin.”
   He jerked quickly around. She was holding a white Panama hat and speaking to it. “Darby,” he said, pulling the handkerchief out for a fake sneeze. Her hair was a gold color and shorter than his. He sneezed and coughed. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I don’t like this idea.”
   Darby didn’t like it either. It was Monday and her classmates were going about their business of clawing through law school, and here she was camouflaged to the max and playing cloak and dagger with this man who could get her killed. “Just do as I say, okay? Where’d you get the cold?”
   He sneezed into the handkerchief and talked as low as possible. It sounded painful. “Last night. I left the air on too low. Let’s get out of here.”
   “Follow me.” They left the store. Darby took his hand, and they walked quickly down a flight of stairs leading to the boardwalk.
   “Have you seen them?” he asked.
   “No. Not yet. But I’m sure they’re around.”
   “Where the hell are we going?” The voice was scratchy.
   They were on the boardwalk, almost jogging, talking without looking at each other. “Just come with me.”
   “You’re going too fast, Darby. We look suspicious. Slow down. Look, this is crazy. Let me make a phone call, and we’ll be safe and secure. I can have three agents here in ten minutes.” He was sounding good. This was working. They were holding hands, running for their lives.
   “Nope.” She slowed. The boardwalk was crowded, and a line had formed beside the Bayou Queen, a paddle wheeler. They stopped at the end of the line.
   “What the hell is this?” he asked.
   “Do you bitch about everything?” she almost whispered.
   “Yes. Especially stupid things, and this is very stupid. Are we getting on this boat?”
   “Yes.”
   “Why?” he sneezed again, then coughed out of control. He could take her out now with one hand, but there were people everywhere. People in front, people behind. He took great pride in his cleanliness, and this would be a dirty place to do it. Get on the boat, play along for a few more minutes, see what happens. He would get her on the upper deck, kill her, dump her in the river, then start yelling. Another terrible drowning accident. That might work. If not, he’d be patient. She’d be dead in an hour. Gavin was a bitch, so keep bitching.
   “Because I’ve got a car a mile upriver at a park where we’ll stop in thirty minutes,” she explained in a low voice. “We get off the boat, into the car, and we haul ass.”
   The line was moving now. “I don’t like boats. They make me seasick. This is dangerous, Darby.” He coughed and looked around like a man pursued.
   “Relax, Gavin. It’s gonna work.”
   Khamel tugged at his pants. They were thirty-six inches in the waist and covered eight layers of briefs and gym shorts. The sweatshirt was extra large, and instead of weighing one-fifty, he could pass for one-ninety. Whatever. It seemed to be working.
   They were almost to the steps of the Bayou Queen. “I don’t like this,” he mumbled loud enough for her to hear.
   “Just shut up,” she said.
   The man with the gun ran to the end of the line and elbowed his way through the people with their bags and cameras. The tourists were packed tightly together as if a ride on the river-boat was the greatest trip in the world. He had killed before, but never in such a public place as this. The back of her head was visible through the crowd. He shoved his way desperately through the line. A few cursed him, but he couldn’t care less. The gun was in a pocket, but as he neared the girl he yanked it out and kept it by his right leg. She was almost to the steps, almost on the boat. He shoved harder and knocked people out of the way. They protested angrily until they saw the gun, then they began yelling. She was holding hands with the man, who was talking nonstop. She was about to step up onto the boat when he knocked the last person out of the way and quickly stuck the gun into the base of the skull just below the red baseball cap. He fired once, and people screamed and fell to the ground.
   Gavin fell hard into the steps. Darby screamed and backed away in horror. Her ears were ringing from the shot, and voices were yelling and people were pointing. The man with the gun was running hard toward a row of shops and a crowd of people. A heavy man with a camera was yelling at him, and Darby watched for a second as he disappeared. Maybe she’d seen him before, but she couldn’t think now. She was yelling and couldn’t stop.
   “He’s got a gun!” a woman near the boat yelled, and the crowd backed away from Gavin, who was on all fours with a small pistol in his right hand. He rocked pitifully back and forth like an infant trying to crawl. Blood streamed from his chin and puddled under his face. His head hung almost to the boards. His eyes were closed. He moved forward just a few inches, his knees now in the dark red puddle.
   The crowd backed farther away, horrified at the sight of this wounded man fighting death. He teetered and wobbled forward again, headed nowhere but wanting to move, to live. He started yelling—loud painful moans in a language Darby did not recognize.
   The blood was pouring, gushing from the nose and chin. He was wailing in that unknown tongue. Two crew members from the boat hovered on the steps, watching but afraid to move. The pistol concerned them.
   A woman was crying, then another. Darby inched farther back. “He’s Egyptian,” a small, dark woman said. That news meant nothing to the crowd, now mesmerized.
   He rocked forward and lunged to the edge of the boardwalk. The gun dropped into the water. He collapsed on his stomach with his head hanging over and dripping into the river. Shouts came from the rear, and two policemen rushed to him.
   A hundred people now inched forward to see the dead man. Darby shuffled backward, then left the scene. The cops would have questions, and since she had no answers, she preferred not to talk. She was weak and needed to sit for a while, and think. There was an oyster bar inside Riverwalk. It was crowded for lunch, and she found the rest rooms in the back. She locked the door and sat on a toilet.


   Shortly after dark, she left Riverwalk. The Westin Hotel is two blocks away, and she hoped maybe she could make it there without being gunned down on the sidewalk. Her clothes were different and hidden under a new black trench coat. The sunglasses and hat were also new. She was tired of spending good money on disposable clothes. She was tired of a lot of things.
   She made it to the Westin in one piece. There were no rooms, and she sat in the well-lit lounge for an hour drinking coffee. It was time to run, but she couldn’t get careless. She had to think.
   Maybe she was thinking too damned much. Maybe they now thought of her as a thinker, and planned accordingly.
   She left the Westin, and walked to Poydras, where she flagged a cab. An elderly black man sat low behind the wheel.
   “I need to go to Baton Rouge,” she said.
   “Lord, honey, that’s a heckuva ride.”
   “How much?” she asked quickly.
   He thought a second. “A hundred and fifty.”
   She crawled in the backseat and threw two bills over the seat. “There’s two hundred. Get there as fast as you can, and watch your rear. We may be followed.”
   He turned off the meter and stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. Darby lay down in the backseat and closed her eyes. This was not an intelligent move, but playing the percentages was getting nowhere. The old man was a fast driver, and within minutes they were on the expressway.
   The ringing in her ears had stopped, but she still heard the gunshot and saw him on all fours, rocking back and forth, trying to live just a moment longer. Thomas had once referred to him as Dutch Verheek, but said the nickname was dropped after law school when they became serious about their careers. Dutch Verheek was not an Egyptian.
   She had caught just a glimpse of his killer as he was running away. There was something familiar about him. He had glanced to his right just once as he was running, and something clicked. But she was screaming and hysterical, and it was a blur.
   Everything blurred. Halfway to Baton Rouge, she fell into a deep sleep.


   Director Voyles stood behind his executive swivel chair. His jacket was off, and most of the buttons on his tired and wrinkled shirt were unfastened. It was 9 P.M., and judging from the shirt he had been at the office at least fifteen hours. And he hadn’t thought of leaving.
   He listened to the receiver, mumbled a few instructions, and hung it up. K. O. Lewis sat across the desk. The door was open; the lights were on—no one had left. The mood was somber with small huddles of soft whispers.
   “That was Eric East,” Voyles said, sitting gently into the chair. “He’s been there about two hours, and they just finished the autopsy. He watched it, his first. Single bullet to the right temple, but death came sooner from a single blow at C-2 and -3. The vertebrae were shattered into tiny chips and pieces. No powder burns on his hand. Another blow severely bruised his larynx, but did not cause death. He was nude. Estimate of between ten and eleven last night.”
   “Who found him?” Lewis asked.
   “Maids checked in around eleven this morning. Will you deliver the news to his wife?”
   “Yes, sure,” K.O. said. “When’s the body coming back?”
   “East said they’ll release it in a couple of hours, and it should be here by 2 A.M. Tell her we’ll do whatever she wants. Tell her I’m sending a hundred agents in tomorrow to blanket the city. Tell her we’ll find the killer, etc., etc.”
   “Any evidence?”
   “Probably not. East said they’ve had the hotel room since 3 P.M., and it appears to be a clean job. No forced entry. No signs of resistance. Nothing that would be of any help, but it’s a bit early.” Voyles rubbed his red eyes, and thought for a while.
   “How could he go down for a simple funeral, and end up dead?” Lewis asked.
   “He was snooping around on this pelican thing. One of our agents, guy named Carlton, told East that Gavin was trying to find the girl, and that the girl had called him, and that he might need some help bringing her in. Carlton talked to him a few times, and gave him the names of a few student hangouts in the city. That was all, so he says. Carlton says that he, Carlton, was a bit worried about Gavin throwing his FBI weight around. Said he thought he was sort of a klutz.”
   “Has anyone seen the girl?”
   “She’s probably dead. I’ve instructed New Orleans to find her, if possible.”
   “Her little brief is getting folks killed right and left. When do we take it seriously?”
   Voyles nodded at the door, and Lewis got up and closed it. The Director was standing again, cracking his knuckles and thinking aloud. “We have to cover our asses. I think we should assign at least two hundred agents to pelican, but try like hell to keep it quiet. There’s something there, K.O., something really nasty. But at the same time, I promised the President we would back off. He personally asked me to back off the pelican brief, remember, and I said we would, in part because we thought it was a joke.” Voyles managed a tight smile. “Well, I taped our little conversation when he asked me to back off. I figure he and Coal tape everything within a half mile of the White House, so why can’t I? I had my best body mike, and I’ve listened to the tape. Clear as a bell.”
   “I’m not following.”
   “Simple. We go in and investigate like mad. If this is it, we crack the case, get the indictments, and everyone’s happy. But it’ll be a bitch to do in a hurry. Meanwhile, idiot and Coal over there know nothing about the investigation. If the press gets wind of it, and if the pelican brief is on target, then I’ll make damned sure the country knows the President asked us to back off because it’s one of his pals.”
   Lewis was smiling. “It’ll kill him.”
   “Yes! Coal will hemorrhage, and the President will never recover. The election is next year, K.O.”
   “I like it, Denton, but we have to solve this thing.”

   Denton walked slowly behind his chair, and slid out of his shoes. He was even shorter now. “We’ll look under every stone, K.O., but it won’t be easy. If it’s Mattiece, then we’ve got a very wealthy man in a very elaborate plot to use very talented killers to take out two justices. These people don’t talk, and they don’t leave trails. Look at our friend Gavin. We’ll spend two thousand hours digging around that hotel, and I’ll bet you there won’t be a shred of useful evidence. Just like Rosenberg and Jensen.”
   “And Callahan.”
   “And Callahan. And probably the girl, if we ever find her body.”
   “I’m somewhat responsible, Denton. Gavin came to me Thursday morning after he learned of Callahan, and I didn’t listen. I knew he was going down there, but I just didn’t listen.”
   “Look, I’m sorry he’s dead. He was a fine lawyer and he was loyal to me. I value that. I trusted Gavin. But he got himself killed because he stepped out of bounds. He had no business playing cop and trying to find the girl.”
   Lewis stood and stretched. “I’d better go see Mrs. Verheek. How much do I tell her?”
   “Let’s say it looks like a burglary, cops ain’t sure down there, still investigating, we’ll know more tomorrow, etc. Tell her I’m devastated, and we’ll do whatever she wants.”


   Coal’s HMO stopped abruptly at the curb so an ambulance could scream by. The limo was wandering aimlessly through the city, a ritual not unusual when Coal and Matthew Barr met to talk about really dirty business. They sat deep in the back of it, sipping drinks. Coal was indulging in a spring water. Barr had a sixteen-ounce Bud purchased from a convenience store.
   They ignored the ambulance.
   “I must know what Grantham knows,” Coal was saying. “Today he called Zikman, Zikman’s aide Trandell, Nelson DeVan, one of my many former assistants who’s now with the Committee to Reelect. And these are just the ones I know of. All in one day. He’s hot on this pelican brief.”
   “You think he’s seen it?” The limo was moving again.
   “No. Not at all. If he knew what was in it, he wouldn’t be fishing for it. But dammit, he knows about it.”
   “He’s good. I’ve watched him for years. He seems to move in the shadows and keeps in touch with an odd network of sources. He’s written some crazy stuff, but it’s usually accurate as hell.”
   “That’s what worries me. He’s tenacious, and he smells blood with this story.”
   Barr sipped from the can. “Of course, it would be asking too much if I wanted to know what was in the brief.”
   “Don’t ask. It’s so damned confidential it’s frightening.”
   “Then how does Grantham know about it?”
   “Perfect question. And that’s what I want to know. How’d he find out, and how much does he know? Where are his sources?”
   “We got his car phone, but we haven’t been inside the apartment yet.”
   “Why not?”
   “We almost got caught this morning by his cleaning lady. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
   “Don’t get caught, Barr. Remember Watergate.”
   “They were morons, Fletcher. We, on the other hand, are quite talented.”
   “That’s right. So tell me, can you and your quite talented associates bug Grantham’s phone at the Post?”
   Barr turned and frowned at Coal. “Have you lost your mind? Impossible. That place is busy at all hours. They have security guards. The works.”
   “It could be done.”
   “Then do it, Coal. If you know so damned much, you do it.”
   “Start thinking about ways to do it, okay? Just give it some thought.”
   “Okay. I’ve thought about it. It’s impossible.” Coal was amused by this thought, and his amusement irritated Barr. The limo eased into downtown.
   “Tap his apartment,” Coal instructed. “I want a report twice a day on all his calls.” The limo stopped, and Barr climbed out.


   Breakfast at Dupont Circle. It was quite chilly, but at least the addicts and transvestites were still unconscious somewhere in their sick little worlds. A few winos lay about like driftwood. But the sun was up and he felt safe, and anyway he was still an FBI agent with a shoulder harness and a piece under his arm. Who was he to fear? He hadn’t used it in fifteen years, and he seldom left the office, but he’d love to yank it out and blast away.
   His name was Trope, a very special assistant to Mr. Voyles. He was so special that no one except he and Mr. Voyles knew about these secret little chats with Booker from Langley. He sat on a circular bench with his back to New Hampshire, and unpacked a store-bought breakfast of banana and muffin. He checked his watch. Booker was never late. Trope always arrived first, then Booker five minutes later, and they always talked quickly and Trope left first, then Booker. They were both office boys now, far into their twilights but very close to their bosses, who from time to time grew weary of trying to figure out what the hell the other was doing, or perhaps just needed to know something quick.
   His real name was Trope, and he wondered if Booker was a real name. Probably not. Booker was from Langley, and they were so paranoid even the pencil pushers probably had fakes.
   He took an inch off the banana. Hell, the secretaries over there probably had three or four names.
   Booker strolled near the fountain with a tall white cup of coffee. He glanced around, then sat down next to his friend. Voyles wanted this meeting, so Trope would speak first.
   “We lost a man in New Orleans,” he said.
   Booker cuddled the hot cup and sipped. “He got himself killed.”
   “Yeah, but he’s still dead. Were you there?”
   “Yes, but we didn’t know he was there. We were close, but watching others. What was he doing?”
   Trope unwrapped the cold muffin. “We don’t know. Went down for the funeral, tried to find the girl, found someone else, and here we are.” He took a long bite and the banana was finished. Now to the muffin. “It was a clean job, wasn’t it?”
   Booker shrugged. What did the FBI know about killing people? “It was okay. Pretty weak effort at suicide, from what we hear.” He sipped the hot coffee.
   “Where’s the girl?” Trope asked.
   “We lost her at O’Hare. Maybe she’s in Manhattan, but we’re not certain. We’re looking.”
   “And they’re looking.” Trope sipped cold coffee.
   “I’m sure they are.”
   They watched a wino stagger from his bench and fall. His head hit first with a thud, but he probably felt nothing. He rolled over and his forehead was bleeding.
   Booker checked his watch. These meetings were extremely brief. “What are Mr. Voyles’ plans?”
   “Oh, he’s going in. He sent fifty troops last night, with more today. He doesn’t like losing people, especially someone he knows.”
   “What about the White House?”
   “Not going to tell them, and maybe they won’t find out. What do they know?”
   “They know Mattiece.”
   Trope managed a slight smile at this thought. “Where is Mr. Mattiece?”
   “Who knows? In the past three years, he’s been seen little in this country. He owns at least a half-dozen homes in as many countries, and he’s got jets and boats, so who knows?”
   Trope finished the muffin and stuffed the wrapper in the sack. “The brief nailed him, didn’t it?”
   “It’s beautiful. And if he’d played it cool, the brief would have been ignored. But he goes berserk, starts killing people, and the more he kills the more credibility the brief has.”
   Trope glanced at his watch. Too long already, but this was good stuff. “Voyles says we may need your help.”
   Booker nodded. “Done. But this will be a very difficult matter. First, the probable gunman is dead. Second, the probable bagman is very elusive. There was an elaborate conspiracy, but the conspirators are gone. We’ll try to find Mattiece.”
   “And the girl?”
   “Yes. We’ll try.”
   “What’s she thinking?”
   “How to stay alive.”
   “Can’t you bring her in?” Trope asked.
   “No. We don’t know where she is, and we can’t just snatch innocent civilians off the streets. She doesn’t trust anyone right now.”
   Trope stood with his coffee and sack. “I can’t blame her.” He was gone.


   Grantham held a cloudy fax photo sent to him from Phoenix. She was a junior at Arizona State, a very attractive twenty-year-old coed. She was listed as a biology major from Denver. He had called twenty Shaws in Denver before he stopped. The second fax was sent by an AP stringer in New Orleans. It was a copy of her freshman photo at Tulane. The hair was longer. Somewhere in the middle of the yearbook, the stringer had found a photo of Darby Shaw drinking a Diet Coke at a law school picnic. She wore a baggy sweater with faded jeans that fit just right, and it was obvious the photo was placed in the yearbook by a great admirer of Darby’s. It looked like something out of Vogue. She was laughing at something or someone at the picnic. The teeth were perfect and the face was warm. He had tacked this one onto the small corkboard beside his news desk.
   There was a fourth fax, a photo of Thomas Callahan, just for the record.
   He placed his feet on the desk. It was almost nine-thirty, Tuesday. The newsroom hummed and rocked like a well-organized riot. He’d made eighty phone calls in the last twenty-four hours, and had nothing to show but the four photos and a stack of campaign finance forms. He was getting nowhere, and, really, why bother? She was about to tell all.
   He skimmed the Post, and saw the strange story about one Gavin Verheek and his demise. The phone rang. It was Darby.
   “Seen the Post?” she asked.
   “I write the Post, remember?”
   She was not in the mood for small talk. “The story about the FBI lawyer murdered in New Orleans, have you seen it?”
   “I’m just reading it. Does it mean something to you?”
   “You could say that. Listen carefully, Grantham. Callahan gave the brief to Verheek, who was his best friend. Friday, Verheek came to New Orleans for the funeral. I talked to him by phone over the weekend. He wanted to help me, but I was scared. We agreed to meet yesterday at noon. Verheek was murdered in his room around eleven Sunday night. Got all that?”
   “Yeah, I got it.”
   “Verheek didn’t show for our meeting. He was, of course, dead by then. I got scared, and left the city. I’m in New York.”
   “Okay.” Grantham wrote furiously. “Who killed Verheek?”
   “I do not know. There’s a lot more to the story. I’ve read the Post and the New York Times from front to back, and I’ve seen nothing about another killing in New Orleans. It happened to a man I was talking to and I thought was Verheek. It’s a long story.”
   “Sounds like it. When do I get this long story?”
   “When can you come to New York?”
   “I can be there by noon.”
   “That’s a little quick. Let’s plan on tomorrow. I’ll call you at this time tomorrow with instructions. You must be careful, Grantham.”
   He admired the jeans and the smile on the corkboard. “It’s Gray, okay? Not Grantham.”
   “Whatever. There are some powerful people afraid of what I know. If I tell you, it could kill you. I’ve seen the bodies, okay, Gray? I’ve heard bombs and gunshots. I saw a man’s brains yesterday, and I have no idea who he was or why he was killed, except that he knew about the pelican brief. I thought he was my friend. I trusted him with my life, and he was shot in the head in front of fifty people. As I watched him die, it occurred to me that perhaps he was not my friend. I read the paper this morning, and I realize he was definitely not my friend.”
   “Who killed him?”
   “We’ll talk about it when you get here.”
   “Okay, Darby.”
   “There’s one small point to cover. I’ll tell you everything I know, but you can never use my name. I’ve already written enough to get at least three people killed, and I’m quite confident I’ll be next. But I don’t want to ask for more trouble. I shall always be unidentified, okay, Gray?”
   “It’s a deal.”
   “I’m putting a lot of trust in you, and I’m not sure why. If I ever doubt you, I’ll disappear.”
   “You have my word, Darby. I swear.”
   “I think you’re making a mistake. This is not your average investigative job. This one could get you killed.”
   “By the same people who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?”
   “Yes.”
   “Do you know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?”
   “I know who paid for the killings. I know his name. I know his business. I know his politics.”
   “And you’ll tell me tomorrow?”
   “If I’m still alive.” There was a long pause as both thought of something appropriate.
   “Perhaps we should talk immediately,” he said.
   “Perhaps. But I’ll call you in the morning.”
   Grantham hung up, and for a moment admired the slightly blurred photo of this very beautiful law student who was convinced she was about to die. For a second he succumbed to thoughts of chivalry and gallantry and rescue. She was in her early twenties, liked older men, according to the photo of Callahan, and suddenly she trusted him to the exclusion of all others. He would make it work. And he would protect her.

  The motorcade moved quietly out of downtown. He was due for a speech at College Park in an hour, and he relaxed in his limo with his jacket off, reading the words Mabry had put together. He shook his head and wrote in the margins. On a normal day, this would be a pleasant drive out of the city to a beautiful campus for a light little speech, but it wasn’t working out. Coal was seated next to him in the limo.
   The Chief of Staff routinely avoided these trips. He treasured the moments the President was out of the White House and he had the run of the place. But they needed to talk.
   “I’m tired of Mabry’s speeches,” the President said in frustration. “They’re all sounding the same. I swear I gave this one last week at the Rotary convention.”
   “He’s the best we’ve got, but I’m exploring,” Coal said without looking up from his memo. He’d read the speech, and it wasn’t that bad. But Mabry had been writing for six months, and the ideas were stale and Coal wanted to fire him anyway.
   The President glanced at Coal’s memo. “What’s that?”
   “The short list.”
   “Who’s left?”
   “Siler-Spence, Watson, and Calderon.” Coal flipped a page.
   “That’s just great, Fletcher. A woman, a black, and a Cuban. Whatever happened to white men? I thought I said I wanted young white men. Young, tough, conservative judges with impeccable credentials and years to live. Didn’t I say that?”
   Coal kept reading. “They have to be confirmed, Chief.”
   “We’ll get ‘em confirmed. I’ll twist arms until they break, but they’ll be confirmed. Do you realize that nine of every ten white men in this country voted for me?”
   “Eighty-four percent.”
   “Right. So what’s wrong with white men?”
   “This is not exactly patronage.”
   “The hell it’s not. It’s patronage pure and simple. I reward my friends, and I punish my enemies. That’s how you survive in politics. You dance with the ones that brought you. I can’t believe you want a female and a black. You’re getting soft, Fletcher.”
   Coal flipped another page. He’d heard this before. “I’m more concerned with reelection,” he said quietly.
   “And I’m not? I’ve appointed so many Asians and Hispanics and women and blacks you’d think I was a Democrat. Hell, Fletcher, what’s wrong with white people? Look, there must be a hundred good, qualified, conservative judges out there, right? Why can’t you find just two, only two, who look and think like I do?”
   “You got ninety percent of the Cuban vote.”
   The President tossed the speech in a seat and picked up the morning’s Post. “Okay, let’s go with Calderon. How old is he?”
   “Fifty-one. Married, eight kids, Catholic, poor background, worked his way through Yale, very solid. Very conservative. No warts or skeletons, except he was treated for alcoholism twenty years ago. He’s been sober since. A teetotaller.”
   “Has he ever smoked dope?”
   “He denies it.”
   “I like him.” The President was reading the front page.
   “So do I. Justice and FBI have checked his underwear, and he’s very clean. Now, do you want Siler-Spence or Watson?”
   “What kind of name is Siler-Spence? I mean, what’s wrong with these women who use hyphens? What if her name was Skowinski, and she married a guy named Levondowski? Would her little liberated soul insist she go through life as F. Gwendolyn Skowinski-Levondowski? Give me a break. I’ll never appoint a woman with a hyphen.”
   “You already have.”
   “Who?”
   “Kay Jones-Roddy, ambassador to Brazil.”
   “Then call her home and fire her.”
   Coal managed a slight grin and placed the memo on the seat. He watched the traffic through his window. They would decide on number two later. Calderon was in the bag, and he wanted Linda Siler-Spence, so he would keep pushing the black and force the President to the woman. Basic manipulation.
   “I think we should wait another two weeks before announcing them,” he said.
   “Whatever,” the President mumbled as he read a story on page one. He would announce them when he got ready, regardless of Coal’s timetable. He was not yet convinced they should be announced together.
   “Judge Watson is a very conservative black judge with a reputation for toughness. He would be ideal.”
   “I don’t know,” the President mumbled as he read about Gavin Verheek.
   Coal had seen the story on page two. Verheek was found dead in a room at the Hilton in New Orleans under strange circumstances. According to the story, official FBI was in the dark and had nothing to say about why Verheek was in New Orleans. Voyles was deeply saddened. Fine, loyal employee, etc.
   The President flipped through the paper. “Our friend Grantham has been quiet.”
   “He’s digging. I think he’s heard of the brief, but just can’t get a handle on it. He’s called everyone in town, but doesn’t know what to ask. He’s chasing rabbits.”
   “Well, I played golf with Gminski yesterday,” the President said smugly. “And he assures me everything’s under control. We had a real heart-to-heart talk over eighteen holes. He’s a horrible golfer, couldn’t stay out of the sand and water. It was funny, really.”
   Coal had never touched a golf club, and hated the idle chatter about handicaps and such. “Do you think Voyles is investigating down there?”
   “No. He gave me his word he would not. Not that I trust him, but Gminski didn’t mention Voyles.”
   “How much do you trust Gminski?” Coal asked with a quick glance and frown at the President.
   “None. But if he knew something about the pelican brief, I think he would tell me—” The President’s words trailed off, and he knew he sounded naive.
   Coal grunted his disbelief.
   They crossed the Anacostia River and were in Prince Georges County. The President picked up the speech and looked out his window. Two weeks after the killings, and the ratings were still above fifty percent. The Democrats had no visible candidate out there making noise. He was strong and getting stronger. Americans were tired of dope and crime, and noisy minorities getting all the attention, and liberal idiots interpreting the Constitution in favor of criminals and radicals. This was his moment. Two nominations to the Supreme Court at the same time. It would be his legacy.
   He smiled to himself. What a wonderful tragedy.


   The taxi stopped abruptly at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second, and Gray, doing exactly what he was told, paid quickly and jumped out with his bag. The car behind was honking and flipping birds, and he thought how nice it was to be back in New York City.
   It was almost 5 P.M., and the pedestrians were thick on Fifth, and he figured that was precisely what she wanted. She had been specific. Take this flight from National to La Guardia. Take a cab to the Vista Hotel in the World Trade Center. Go to the bar, have a drink, maybe two, watch your rear, then after an hour catch a cab to the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second. Move quickly, wear sunglasses, and watch for everything because if he was being followed he could get them killed.
   She made him write it all down. It was a bit silly, a bit of overkill, but she had a voice he couldn’t argue with. Didn’t want to, really. She was lucky to be alive, she said, and she would take no more chances. And if he wanted to talk to her, then he would do exactly as he was told.
   He wrote it down. He fought the crowd and walked as fast as possible up Fifth to Fifty-ninth to the Plaza, up the steps and through its lobby, then out onto Central Park South. No one could follow him. And if she was this cautious, no one could follow her.
   The sidewalk was packed along Central Park South, and as he neared Sixth Avenue he walked even faster. He was keyed up, and regardless of how restrained he tried to be, he was terribly excited about meeting her. On the phone she had been cool and methodical, but with a trace of fear and uncertainty. She was just a law student, she said, and she didn’t know what she was doing, and she would probably be dead in a week if not sooner, but anyway this was the way the game would be played. Always assume you’re being followed, she said. She had survived seven days of being chased by bloodhounds, so please do as she said.
   She said to duck into the St. Moritz at the corner of Sixth, and he did. She had reserved a room for him under the name of Warren Clark. He paid cash for the room, and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. He was to wait. Just sit and wait, she’d said.
   He stood in the window for an hour and watched Central Park grow dark. The phone rang.
   “Mr. Clark?” a female asked.
   “Uh, yes.”
   “It’s me. Did you arrive alone?”
   “Yes. Where are you?”
   “Six floors up. Take the elevator to the eighteenth, then walk down to the fifteenth. Room 1520.”
   “Okay. Now?”
   “Yes. I’m waiting.”
   He brushed his teeth again, checked his hair, and ten minutes later was standing before room 1520. He felt like a sophomore on his first date. He hadn’t had butterflies this bad since high school football.
   But he was Gray Grantham of the Washington Post, and this was just another story and she was just another woman, so grab the reins, buddy.
   He knocked, and waited. “Who is it?”
   “Grantham,” he said to the door.
   The bolt clicked, and she opened the door slowly. The hair was gone, but she smiled, and there was the cover girl. She shook his hand firmly. “Come in.”
   She closed and bolted the door behind him. “Would you care for a drink?” she asked.
   “Sure, what do you have?”
   “Water, with ice.”
   “Sounds great.”
   She walked into a small sitting room where the television was on with no sound. “In here,” she said. He set his bag on the table, and took a seat on the sofa. She was standing at the bar, and for a quick second he admired the jeans. No shoes. Extra-large sweatshirt with the collar to one side where a bra strap peeked through.
   She handed him the water, and sat in a chair by the door.
   “Thanks,” he said.
   “Have you eaten?” she asked.
   “You didn’t tell me to.”
   She chuckled at this. “Forgive me. I’ve been through a lot. Let’s order room service.”
   He nodded and smiled at her. “Sure. Anything you want is fine with me.”
   “I’d love a greasy cheeseburger with fries and a cold beer.”
   “Perfect.”
   She picked up the phone and ordered the food. Grantham walked to the window and watched the lights crawling along Fifth Avenue.
   “I’m twenty-four. How old are you?” She was on the sofa now, sipping ice water.
   He took the chair nearest to her. “Thirty-eight. Married once. Divorced seven years and three months ago. No children. Live alone with a cat. Why’d you pick the St. Moritz?”
   “Rooms were available, and I convinced them it was important to pay with cash and present no identification. Do you like it?”
   “It’s fine. Sort of past its prime.”
   “This is not exactly a vacation.”
   “It’s fine. How long do you think we might be here?”
   She watched him carefully. He’d published a book six years earlier on HUD scandals, and though it didn’t sell she’d found a copy in a public library in New Orleans. He looked six years older than the photo on the dust jacket, but he was aging nicely with a touch of gray over the ears.
   “I don’t know how long you’ll stay,” she said. “My plans are subject to change by the minute. I may see a face on the street and fly to New Zealand.”
   “When did you leave New Orleans?”
   “Monday night. I took a cab to Baton Rouge, and that would have been easy to follow. I flew to Chicago, where I bought four tickets to four different cities, including Boise, where my mother lives. I jumped on the plane to La Guardia at the last moment. I don’t think anyone followed.”
   “You’re safe.”
   “Maybe for the moment. We’ll both be hunted when this story is published. Assuming it’s published.”
   Gray rattled his ice and studied her. “Depends on what you tell me. And it depends on how much can be verified from other sources.”
   “The verification is up to you. I’ll tell you what I know, and from there you’re on your own.”
   “Okay. When do we start talking?”
   “After dinner. I’d rather do it on a full stomach. You’re in no hurry, are you?”
   “Of course not. I’ve got all night, and all day tomorrow, and the next day and the next. I mean, you’re talking about the biggest story in twenty years, so I’ll hang around as long as you’ll talk to me.”
   Darby smiled and looked away. Exactly a week ago, she and Thomas were waiting for dinner in the bar at Mouton’s. He was wearing a black silk blazer, denim shirt, red paisley tie and heavily starched khakis. Shoes, but no socks. The shirt was unbuttoned and the tie was loose. They had talked about the Virgin Islands and Thanksgiving and Gavin Verheek while they waited on a table. He was drinking fast, and that was not unusual. He got drunk later, and it saved her life.
   She had lived a year in the past seven days, and she was having a real conversation with a live person who did not wish her dead. She crossed her feet on the coffee table. It was not uncomfortable having him here in her room. She relaxed. His face said, “Trust me.” And why not? Whom else could she trust?
   “What are you thinking about?” he asked.
   “It’s been a long week. Seven days ago I was just another law student busting my tail to get to the top. Now look at me.”
   He was looking at her. Trying to be cool, not like a gawking sophomore, but he was looking. The hair was dark and very short, and quite stylish, but he liked the long version in yesterday’s fax.
   “Tell me about Thomas Callahan,” he said.
   “Why?”
   “I don’t know. He’s part of the story, isn’t he?”
   “Yeah. I’ll get to it later.”
   “Fine. Your mother lives in Boise?”
   “Yes, but she knows nothing. Where’s your mother?”
   “Short Hills, New Jersey,” he answered with a smile. He crunched on an ice cube and waited for her. She was thinking.
   “What do you like about New York?” she asked.
   “The airport. It’s the quickest way out.”
   “Thomas and I were here in the summer. It’s hotter than New Orleans.”
   Suddenly, Grantham realized she was not just a hot little coed, but a widow in mourning. The poor lady was suffering. She had not been checking out his hair or his clothes or his eyes. She was in pain. Dammit!
   “I’m very sorry about Thomas,” he said. “I won’t ask about him again.”
   She smiled but said nothing.
   There was a loud knock. Darby jerked her feet off the table, and glared at the door. Then she breathed deeply. It was the food.
   “I’ll get it,” Gray said. “Just relax.”

   For centuries, a quiet but mammoth battle of nature raged without interference along the coastline of what would become Louisiana. It was a battle for territory. No humans were involved until recent years. From the south, the ocean pushed inland with its tides and winds and floods. From the north, the Mississippi River hauled down an inexhaustible supply of freshwater and sediment, and fed the marshes with the soil they needed to vegetate and thrive. The saltwater from the Gulf eroded the coastline and burned the freshwater marshes by killing the grasses that held them together. The river responded by draining half the continent and depositing its soil in lower Louisiana. It slowly built a long succession of sedimentary deltas, each of which in turn eventually blocked the river’s path and forced it to change course yet again. The lush wetlands were built by the deltas.
   It was an epic struggle of give-and-take, with the forces of nature firmly in control. With the constant replenishment from the mighty river, the deltas not only held their own against the Gulf, but expanded.
   The marshlands were a marvel of natural evolution. Using the rich sediment as food, they grew into a green paradise of cypress and oak and dense patches of pickerelweed and bulrush and cattails. The water was filled with crawfish, shrimp, oysters, red snappers, flounder, pompano, bream, crabs, and alligators.
   The coastal plain was a sanctuary for wildlife. Hundreds of species of migratory birds came to roost.
   The wetlands were vast and limitless, rich and abundant.
   Then oil was discovered there in 1930, and the rape was on. The oil companies dredged ten thousand miles of canals to get to the riches. They crisscrossed the fragile delta with a slashing array of neat little ditches. They sliced the marshes to ribbons.
   They drilled, found oil, then dredged like maniacs to get to it. Their canals were perfect conduits for the Gulf and its saltwater, which ate away at the marshes.
   Since oil was found, tens of thousands of acres of wetlands have been devoured by the ocean. Sixty square miles of Louisiana vanishes every year. Every fourteen minutes, another acre disappears under water.


   In 1979, an oil company punched a hole deep in Terrebonne Parish and hit oil. It was a routine day on just another rig, but it was not a routine hit. There was a lot of oil. They drilled again an eighth of a mile away, and hit another big one. They backed off a mile, drilled, and hit an even bigger one. Three miles away, they struck gold again.
   The oil company capped the wells and pondered the situation, which had all the markings of a major new field.
   The oil company was owned by Victor Mattiece, a Cajun from Lafayette who’d made and lost several fortunes drilling for oil in south Louisiana. In 1979, he happened to be wealthy, and more importantly, he had access to other people’s money. He was quickly convinced he had just tapped a major reserve. He began buying land around the capped wells.
   Secrets are crucial but hard to keep in the oilfields. And Mattiece knew if he threw around too much money, there would soon be a mad rush of drilling around his new gold mine. A man of infinite patience and planning, he looked at the big picture and said no to the quick buck. He decided he would have it all. He huddled with his lawyers and other advisers, and devised a plan to methodically buy the surrounding land under a myriad of corporate names. They formed new companies, used some of his old ones, purchased all or portions of struggling firms, and went about the business of acquiring acreage.
   Those in the business knew Mattiece, and knew he had money and could get more. Mattiece knew they knew, so he quietly unleashed two dozen faceless entities upon the landowners of Terrebonne Parish. It worked without a major hitch.
   The plan was to consolidate territory, then dredge yet another channel through the hapless and beleaguered marshlands so that the men and their equipment could get to the rigs and the oil could be brought out with haste. The canal would be thirty-five miles long and twice as wide as the others. There would be a lot of traffic.
   Because Mattiece had money, he was a popular man with the politicians and bureaucrats. He played their game skillfully. He sprinkled money around where needed. He loved politics, but hated publicity. He was paranoid and reclusive.
   As the land acquisition sailed smoothly along, Mattiece suddenly found himself short of cash. The industry turned downward in the early eighties, and his other rigs stopped pumping. He needed big money, and he wanted partners adept at putting it up and remaining silent about it. So he stayed away from Texas. He went overseas and found some Arabs who studied his maps and believed his estimate of a mammoth reserve of crude and natural gas. They bought a piece of the action, and Mattiece had plenty of cash again.
   He did the sprinkling act, and obtained official permission to gouge his way through the delicate marshes and cypress swamps. The pieces were falling majestically into place, and Victor Mattiece could smell a billion dollars. Maybe two or three.
   Then an odd thing happened. A lawsuit was filed to stop the dredging and drilling. The plaintiff was an obscure environmental outfit known simply as Green Fund.
   The lawsuit was unexpected because for fifty years Louisiana had allowed itself to be devoured and polluted by oil companies and people like Victor Mattiece. It had been a trade-off. The oil business employed many and paid well. The oil and gas taxes collected in Baton Rouge paid the salaries of state employees.
   The small bayou villages had been turned into boomtowns. The politicians from the governors down took the oil money and played along. All was well, and so what if some of the marshlands suffered.
   Green Fund filed the lawsuit in the U.S. District Court in Lafayette. A federal judge halted the project pending a trial on all issues.
   Mattiece went over the edge. He spent weeks with his lawyers plotting and scheming. He would spare no expense to win. Do whatever it took, he instructed them. Break any rule, violate any ethic, hire any expert, commission any study, cut any throat, spend any amount of money. Just win the damned lawsuit.
   Never one to be seen, he assumed an even lower profile. He moved to the Bahamas and operated from an armed fortress at Lyford Cay. He flew to New Orleans once a week to meet with the lawyers, then returned to the island.
   Though invisible now, he made certain his political contributions increased. His jackpot was still safe beneath Terrebonne Parish, and he would one day extract it, but one never knows when one will be forced to call in favors.


   By the time the Green Fund lawyers, both of them, had waded in ankle deep, they had identified over thirty separate defendants. Some owned land. Some did exploring. Others laid pipe. Others drilled. The joint ventures and limited partnerships and corporate associations were an impenetrable maze.
   The defendants and their legions of high-priced lawyers answered with a vengeance. They filed a thick motion asking the judge to dismiss the lawsuit as frivolous. Denied. They asked him to allow the drilling to continue while they waited on a trial. Denied. They squealed with pain and explained in another heavy motion how much money was already tied up in exploration, drilling, etc. Denied again. They filed motions by the truckload, and when they were all denied and it was evident there would one day be a trial by jury, the oil lawyers dug in and played dirty.
   Luckily for Green Fund’s lawsuit, the heart of the new oil reserve was near a ring of marshes that had been for years a natural refuge for waterfowl. Ospreys, egrets, pelicans, ducks, cranes, geese, and many others migrated to it. Though Louisiana has not always been kind to its land, it has shown a bit more sympathy for its animals. Since the verdict would one day be rendered by a jury of average and hopefully ordinary people, the Green Fund lawyers played heavy on the birds.
   The pelican became the hero. After thirty years of insidious contamination by DDT and other pesticides, the Louisiana brown pelican perched on the brink of extinction. Almost too late, it was classified as an endangered species, and afforded a higher class of protection. Green Fund seized the majestic bird, and enlisted a half-dozen experts from around the country to testify on its behalf.
   With a hundred lawyers involved, the lawsuit moved slowly. At times it went nowhere, which suited Green Fund just fine. The rigs were idle.
   Seven years after Mattiece first buzzed over Terrebonne Bay in his jet helicopter and followed the swamplands along the route his precious canal would take, the pelican suit went to trial in Lake Charles. It was a bitter trial that lasted ten weeks. Green Fund sought money damages for the havoc already inflicted, and it wanted a permanent injunction against further drilling.
   The oil companies brought in a fancy litigator from Houston to talk to the jury. He wore elephant-skin boots and a Stetson, and could talk like a Cajun when necessary. He was stout medicine, especially when compared to the Green Fund lawyers, both of whom had beards and very intense faces.
   Green Fund lost the trial, and it was not altogether unexpected. The oil companies spent millions, and it’s difficult to whip a bear with a switch. David pulled it off, but the best bet is always on Goliath. The jurors were not impressed with the dire warnings about pollution and the frailness of wetland ecology. Oil meant money, and folks needed jobs.
   The judge kept the injunction in place for two reasons. First, he thought Green Fund had proven its point about the pelican, a federally protected species. And it was apparent to all that Green Fund would appeal, so the matter was far from over.
   The dust settled for a while, and Mattiece had a small victory. But he knew there would be other days in other courtrooms. He was a man of infinite patience and planning.


   The tape recorder was in the center of the small table with four empty beer bottles around.
   He made notes as he talked. “Who told you about the lawsuit?”
   “A guy named John Del Greco. He’s a law student at Tulane, a year ahead of me. He clerked last summer for a big firm in Houston, and the firm was on the periphery of the hostilities. He was not close to the trial, but the rumors and gossip were heavy.”
   “And all the firms were from New Orleans and Houston?”
   “Yes, the principal litigation firms. But these companies are from a dozen different cities, so of course they brought their local counsel with them. There were lawyers from Dallas, Chicago, and several other cities. It was a circus.”
   “What’s the status of the lawsuit?”
   “From the trial level, it will be appealed to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. That appeal has not been perfected, but should be in a month or so.”
   “Where’s the Fifth Circuit?”
   “New Orleans. About twenty-four months after it arrives there, a three-judge panel will hear and decide. The losing party will undoubtedly request a rehearing by the full panel, and this will take another three or four months. There are enough defects in the verdict to insure either a reversal or a remand.”
   “What’s a remand?”
   “The appellate court can do any of three things. Affirm the verdict, reverse the verdict, or find enough error to send the whole thing back for a new trial. If it goes back, it’s been remanded. They can also affirm part, reverse part, remand part, sort of scramble things up.”
   Gray shook his head in frustration as he scribbled away. “Why would anyone want to be a lawyer?”
   “I’ve asked myself that a few times in the past week.”
   “Any idea what the Fifth Circuit might do?”
   “None. They haven’t even seen it yet. The plaintiffs are alleging a multitude of procedural sins by the defendants, and given the nature of the conspiracy, a lot of it’s probably true. It could be reversed.”
   “Then what happens?”
   “The fun starts. If either side is unhappy with the Fifth Circuit, they can appeal to the Supreme Court.”
   “Surprise, surprise.”
   “Each year the Supreme Court receives thousands of appeals, but is very selective about what it takes. Because of the money and pressure and issues involved, this one has a decent chance of being heard.”
   “From today, how long would it take for the case to be decided by the Supreme Court?”
   “Anywhere from three to five years.”
   “Rosenberg would have died from natural causes.”
   “Yes, but there could be a Democrat in the White House when he died from natural causes. So take him out now when you can sort of predict his replacement.”
   “Makes sense.”
   “Oh, it’s beautiful. If you’re Victor Mattiece, and you’ve only got fifty million or so, and you want to be a billionaire, and you don’t mind killing a couple of Supremes, then now is the time.”
   “But what if the Supreme Court refused to hear the case?”
   “He’s in good shape if the Fifth Circuit affirms the trial verdict. But if it reverses, and the Supreme Court denies cert, he’s got problems. My guess is that he would go back to square one, stir up some new litigation, and try it all again. There’s too much money involved to lick his wounds and go home. When he took care of Rosenberg and Jensen, one has to assume he committed himself to a cause.”
   “Where was he during the trial?”
   “Completely invisible. Keep in mind, it is not public knowledge that he’s the ringleader of the litigation. By the time the trial started, there were thirty-eight corporate defendants. No individuals were named, just corporations. Of the thirty-eight, seven are traded publicly, and he owns no more than twenty percent of any one. These are just small firms traded over the counter. The other thirty-one are privately held, and I couldn’t get much information. But I did learn that many of these private companies are owned by each other, and some are even owned by the public corporations. It’s almost impenetrable.”
   “But he’s in control.”
   “Yes. I suspect he owns or controls eighty percent of the project. I checked out four of the private companies, and three are chartered offshore. Two in the Bahamas, and one in the Caymans. Del Greco heard that Mattiece operates from behind offshore banks and companies.”
   “Do you remember the seven public companies?”
   “Most of them. They, of course, were footnoted in the brief, a copy of which I do not have. But I’ve rewritten most of it in longhand.”
   “Can I see it?”
   “You can have it. But it’s lethal.”
   “I’ll read it later. Tell me about the photograph.”
   “Mattiece is from a small town near Lafayette, and in his younger years was a big money man for politicians in south Louisiana. He was a shadowy type back then, always in the background giving money. He spent big bucks on Democrats locally and Republicans nationally, and over the years he was wined and dined by big shots from Washington. He has never sought publicity, but his kind of money is hard to hide, especially when it’s being handed out to politicians. Seven years ago, when the President was the Vice President, he was in New Orleans for a Republican fundraiser. All the heavy hitters were there, including Mattiece. It was ten thousand dollars a plate, so the press tried to get in. Somehow a photographer snapped a picture of Mattiece shaking hands with the VP. The New Orleans paper ran it the next day. It’s a wonderful picture. They’re grinning at each other like best friends.”
   “It’ll be easy to get.”
   “I stuck it on the last page of the brief, just for the fun of it. This is fun, isn’t it?”
   “I’m having a ball.”
   “Mattiece dropped out of sight a few years ago, and is now believed to live in several places. He’s very eccentric. Del Greco said most people believe he’s demented.”
   The recorder beeped, and Gray changed tapes. Darby stood and stretched her long legs. He watched her as he fumbled with the recorder. Two other tapes were already used and marked.

   “Are you tired?” he asked.
   “I haven’t been sleeping well. How many more questions?”
   “How much more do you know?”
   “We’ve covered the basics. There are some gaps we can fill in the morning.”
   Gray turned off the recorder and stood. She was at the window, stretching and yawning. He relaxed on the sofa.
   “What happened to the hair?” he asked.
   Darby sat in a chair and pulled her feet under her. Red toe-nails. Her chin rested on her knees. “I left it in a hotel in New Orleans. How did you know about it?”
   “I saw a photograph.”
   “From where?”
   “Three photos, actually. Two from the Tulane yearbook, and one from Arizona State.”
   “Who sent them to you?”
   “I have contacts. They were faxed to me, so they weren’t that good. But there was this gorgeous hair.”
   “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
   “Why?”
   “Every phone call leaves a trail.”
   “Come on, Darby. Give me a little credit.”
   “You were snooping around on me.”
   “Just a little background. That’s all.”
   “No more, okay? If you want something from me, just ask. If I say no, then leave it alone.”
   Grantham shrugged and agreed. Forget the hair. On to less sensitive matters. “So who selected Rosenberg and Jensen? Mattiece is not a lawyer.”
   “Rosenberg is easy. Jensen wrote little on environmental issues, but he was consistent in voting against all types of development. If they shared common ground with any consistency, it was protecting the environment.”
   “And you think Mattiece figured this out by himself?”
   “Of course not. A pretty wicked legal mind presented him with the two names. He has a thousand lawyers.”
   “And none in D.C.?”
   Darby raised her chin and frowned at him. “What did you say?”
   “None of his lawyers are in D.C.”
   “I didn’t say that.”
   “I thought you said the law firms were primarily from New Orleans and Houston and other cities. You didn’t mention D.C.”
   Darby shook her head. “You’re assuming too much. I can think of at least two D.C. firms that I ran across. One is White and Blazevich, a very old, powerful, rich Republican firm with four hundred lawyers.”
   Gray moved to the edge of the sofa.
   “What’s the matter?” she asked. He was suddenly wired. He was on his feet walking to the door, then back to the sofa.
   “This may fit. This may be it, Darby.”
   “I’m listening.”
   “Are you listening?”
   “I swear I’m listening.”
   He was at the window. “Okay, last week I got three phone calls from a lawyer in D.C. named Garcia, but that’s not his name. He said he knew something and saw something about Rosenberg and Jensen, and he wanted so badly to tell me what he knew. But he got scared and disappeared.”
   “There are a million lawyers in D.C.”
   “Two million. But I know he works in a private firm. He sort of admitted it. He was sincere and very frightened, thought they were following. I asked who they were, and he of course wouldn’t say.”
   “What happened to him?”
   “We had a meeting planned for last Saturday morning, and he called early and said forget it. Said he was married and had a good job, and why risk it? He never admitted it, but I think he has a copy of something that he was about to show me.”
   “He could be your verification.”
   “What if he works for White and Blazevich? We’ve suddenly narrowed it to four hundred lawyers.”
   “The haystack is much smaller.”
   Grantham darted to his bag, flipped through some papers, and presto! pulled out a five-by-seven black and white. He dropped it in her lap. “This is Mr. Garcia.”
   Darby studied the picture. It was a man on a busy sidewalk. The face was clear. “I take it he didn’t pose for this.”
   “Not exactly.” Grantham was pacing.
   “Then how’d you get it?”
   “I cannot reveal my sources.”
   She slid it onto the coffee table, and rubbed her eyes. “You’re scaring me, Grantham. This has a sleazy feel to it. Tell me it’s not sleazy.”
   “It’s just a little sleazy, okay? The kid was using the same pay phone, and that’s a mistake.”
   “Yes, I know. That’s a mistake.”
   “And I wanted to know what he looked like.”
   “Did you ask if you could take his photograph?”
   “No.”
   “Then it’s sleazy as hell.”
   “Okay. It’s sleazy as hell. But I did it, and there it is, and it could be our link to Mattiece.”
   “Our link?”
   “Yes, our link. I thought you wanted to nail Mattiece.”
   “Did I say that? I want him to pay, but I’d rather leave him alone. He’s made a believer out of me, Gray. I’ve seen enough blood to last me a long time. You take this ball and run with it.”
   He didn’t hear this. He walked behind her to the window, then back to the bar. “You mentioned two firms. What’s the other?”
   “Brim, Stearns, and somebody. I didn’t get a chance to check them out. It’s sort of odd because neither firm is listed as counsel of record for any of the defendants, but both firms, especially White and Blazevich, kept popping up as I went through the file.”
   “How big is Brim, Stearns, and somebody?”
   “I can find out tomorrow.”
   “As big as White and Blazevich?”
   “I doubt it.”
   “Just guess. How big?”
   “Two hundred lawyers.”
   “Okay. Now we’re up to six hundred lawyers in two firms. You’re the lawyer, Darby. How can we find Garcia?”
   “I’m not a lawyer, and I’m not a private detective. You’re the investigative reporter.” She didn’t like this “we” business.
   “Yeah, but I’ve never been in a law office, except for the divorce.”
   “Then you’re very fortunate.”
   “How can we find him?”
   She was yawning again. They had been talking for almost three hours, and she was exhausted. This could resume in the morning. “I don’t know how to find him, and I really haven’t given it much thought. I’ll sleep on it, and explain it to you in the morning.”
   Grantham was suddenly calm. She stood and walked to the bar for a glass of water.
   “I’ll get my things,” he said, picking up the tapes.
   “Would you do me a favor?” she asked.
   “Maybe.”
   She paused and looked at the sofa. “Would you mind sleeping on the sofa tonight? I mean, I haven’t slept well in a long time, and I need the rest. It would, well, it would be nice if I knew you were in here.”
   He swallowed hard, and looked at the sofa. They both looked at the sofa. It was a five-footer at most, and did not appear to be the least bit comfortable.
   “Sure,” he said, smiling at her. “I understand.”
   “I’m spooked, okay?”
   “I understand.”
   “It’s nice to have someone like you around.” She smiled demurely, and Gray melted.
   “I don’t mind,” he said. “No problem.”
   “Thanks.”
   “Lock the door, get in the bed, and sleep well. I’ll be right here, and everything’s all right.”
   “Thanks.” She nodded and smiled again, then closed the door to her bedroom. He listened, and she did not lock it.
   He sat on the sofa in the darkness, watching her door. Some time after midnight, he dozed and slept with his knees not far from his chin.


   Her boss was Jackson Feldman, and he was the executive editor, and this was her turf, and she didn’t take any crap off anyone but Mr. Feldman. Especially an insolent brat like Gray Grantham, who was standing in front of Mr. Feldman’s door, guarding it like a Doberman. She glared at him, and he sneered at her, and this had been going on for ten minutes, ever since they huddled in there and closed the door. Why Grantham was waiting outside, she did not know. But this was her turf.
   Her phone rang, and Grantham yelled at her. “No calls!”
   Her face was instantly red, and her mouth flew open. She picked up the receiver, listened for a second, then said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Feldman is in a meeting.” She glared at Grantham, who was shaking his head as if to dare her. “Yes, I’ll have him call you back as soon as possible.” She hung up.
   “Thanks!” Grantham said, and this threw her off guard. She was about to say something nasty, but with the “Thanks” her mind went blank. He smiled at her. And it made her even madder.
   It was five-thirty, time for her to leave, but Mr. Feldman asked her to stay. He was still smirking at her over there by the door, not ten feet away. She had never liked Gray Grantham. But then, there weren’t too many people at the Post she did like. A news aide approached and appeared headed for the door when the Doberman stepped in front of him. “Sorry, you can’t go in right now,” Grantham said.
   “And why not?”
   “They’re in a meeting. Leave it with her.” He pointed at the secretary, who despised being pointed at and despised being referred to simply as “her.” She had been here for twenty-one years.
   The news aide was not easily intimidated. “That’s fine. But Mr. Feldman instructed me to have these papers here at precisely five-thirty. It’s precisely five-thirty, here I am, and here are the papers.”
   “Look, we’re real proud of you. But you can’t go in, understand? Now just leave the papers with that nice lady over there, and the sun will come up tomorrow.” Grantham moved squarely in front of the door, and appeared ready for combat if the kid insisted.
   “I’ll take those,” the secretary said. She took them, and the news aide left.
   “Thanks!” Grantham said loudly again.
   “I find you to be very rude,” she snapped.
   “I said ‘Thanks.’” He tried to look hurt.
   “You’re a real smartass.”
   “Thanks!”
   The door suddenly opened, and a voice called out, “Grantham.”
   He smiled at her, and stepped inside. Jackson Feldman was standing behind his desk. The tie was down to the second button and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He was six-six, with no fat. At fifty-eight, he ran two marathons a year and worked fifteen hours a day.
   Smith Keen was also standing, and holding the four-page outline of a story along with a copy of Darby’s handwritten reproduction of the pelican brief. Feldman’s copy was lying on the desk. They appeared dazed.
   “Close the door,” Feldman said to Grantham.
   Gray closed the door and sat on the edge of a table. No one spoke.
   Feldman rubbed his eyes roughly, then looked at Keen. “Wow,” he finally said.
   Gray smiled. “You mean that’s it. I hand you the biggest story in twenty years, and you are so moved you say ‘Wow.’”
   “Where’s Darby Shaw?” Keen asked.
   “I can’t tell you. It’s part of the deal.”
   “What deal?” Keen asked.
   “I can’t tell you that either.”
   “When did you talk to her?”

   “Last night, and again this morning.”
   “And this was in New York?” Keen asked.
   “What difference does it make where we talked? We talked, okay? She talked. I listened. I flew home. I wrote the outline. So what do you think?”
   Feldman slowly folded his thin frame and sat deep in his chair. “How much does the White House know?”
   “Not sure. Verheek told Darby that it was delivered to the White House one day last week, and at the time the FBI thought it should be pursued. Then for some reason, after the White House had it, the FBI backed off. That’s all I know.”
   “How much did Mattiece give the President three years ago?”
   “Millions. Virtually all of it through a myriad of PACs that he controls. This guy is very smart. He’s got all kinds of lawyers, and they figure out ways to funnel money here and there. It’s probably legal.”
   The editors were thinking slowly. They were stunned, as if they’d just survived a bomb blast. Grantham was quite proud, and swung his feet under the table like a kid on a pier.
   Feldman slowly picked up the papers clipped together and flipped through until he found the photograph of Mattiece and the President. He shook his head.
   “It’s dynamite, Gray,” Keen said. “We just can’t run without a bunch of corroboration. Hell, you’re talking about the world’s greatest job of verifying. This is powerful stuff, son.”
   “How can you do it?” Feldman asked.
   “I’ve got some ideas.”
   “I’d like to hear them. You could get yourself killed with this.”
   Grantham jumped to his feet, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “First, we’ll try to find Garcia.”
   “We? Who’s we?” Keen asked.
   “Me, okay? Me. I’ll try to find Garcia.”
   “Is the girl in on this?” Keen asked.
   “I can’t answer that. It’s part of the deal.”
   “Answer the question,” Feldman said. “Look at where we are if she gets killed helping you with the story. It’s much too risky. Now where is she and what have you guys got planned?”
   “I’m not telling where she is. She’s a source, and I always protect my sources. No, she’s not helping with the investigation. She’s just a source, okay?”
   They stared at him in disbelief. They looked at each other, and finally Keen shrugged.
   “Do you want some help?” Feldman asked.
   “No. She insists on me doing it alone. She’s very scared, and you can’t blame her.”
   “I got scared just reading the damned thing,” Keen said.
   Feldman kicked back in his chair and crossed his feet on the desk. Size fourteens. He smiled for the first time. “You’ve got to start with Garcia. If he can’t be found, then you could dig for months on Mattiece and not put it together. And before you start digging on Mattiece, let’s have a long talk. I sort of like you, Grantham, and this is not worth getting killed over.”
   “I see every word you write, okay?” Keen said.
   “And I want a daily report, okay?” Feldman said.
   “No problem.”
   Keen walked to the glass wall and watched the madness in the newsroom. In the course of each day, the chaos came and went a half a dozen times. Things got crazy at five-thirty. The news was being written, and the second story conference was at six-thirty.
   Feldman watched from his desk. “This could be the end of the slump,” he said to Gray without looking at him. “What’s it been, five, six years?”
   “Try seven,” Keen said.
   “I’ve written some good stories,” Gray said defensively.
   “Sure,” Feldman said, still watching the newsroom. “But you’ve been hitting doubles and triples. The last grand slam was a long time ago.”
   “There have been a lot of strikeouts too,” Keen added helpfully.
   “Happens to all of us,” Gray said. “But this grand slam will be in the seventh game of the World Series.” He opened the door.
   Feldman glared at him. “Don’t get hurt, and don’t allow her to get hurt. Understand?”
   Gray smiled and left the office.


   He was almost to Thomas Circle when he saw the blue lights behind him. The cop did not pass, but stayed on his bumper. He was oblivious to both the speed limit and his speedometer. It would be his third ticket in sixteen months.
   He parked in a small lot next to an apartment house. It was dark, and the blue lights flashed in his mirrors. He rubbed his temples.
   “Step out,” the cop demanded from the bumper.
   Gray opened the door and did what he was told. The cop was black, and was suddenly smiling. It was Cleve. He pointed to the patrol car. “Get in.”
   They sat in the car under the blue lights and stared at the Volvo. “Why do you do this to me?” Gray asked.
   “We have quotas, Grantham. We have to stop so many white people and harass them. Chief wants to even things out. The white cops pick on innocent poor black folks, so us black cops have to pick on innocent rich white folks.”
   “I suppose you’re gonna handcuff me and beat the hell out of me.”
   “Only if you ask me to. Sarge can’t talk anymore.”
   “I’m listening.”
   “He smells something around the place. He’s caught a few strange looks, and he’s heard a thing or two.”
   “Such as?”
   “Such as they’re talking about you, and how much they need to know what you know. He thinks they might be listening.”
   “Come on, Cleve. Is he serious?”
   “He’s heard them talk about you and how you’re asking questions about the pelican something or other. You’ve got ‘em shook up.”
   “What has he heard about this pelican thing?”
   “Just that you’re hot on it, and they’re serious about it. These are mean and paranoid people, Gray. Sarge says to be careful where you go and who you talk to.”
   “And we can’t meet anymore?”
   “Not for a while. He wants to lay low, and run things through me.”
   “We’ll do that. I need his help, but tell him to be careful. This is very touchy.”
   “What is this pelican business?”
   “I can’t say. But tell Sarge it could get him killed.”
   “Not Sarge. He’s smarter than all of them over there.”
   Gray opened the door and got out. “Thanks, Cleve.”
   He turned off the blue lights. “I’ll be around. I’m working nights for the next six months, so I’ll try and keep an eye on you.”
   “Thanks.”


   Rupert paid for his cinnamon roll and sat on a bar stool overlooking the sidewalk. It was midnight, exactly midnight, and Georgetown was winding down. A few cars sped along M Street, and the remaining pedestrians headed for home. The coffee shop was busy, but not crowded. He sipped black coffee.
   He recognized the face on the sidewalk, and moments later the man was sitting on the next bar stool. He was a flunkie of some sort. They had met a few days ago in New Orleans.
   “So what’s the score?” Rupert asked.
   “We can’t find her. And that worries us because we got some bad news today.”
   “And?”
   “Well, we heard voices, unconfirmed, that the bad guys have freaked out, and that the number one bad guy wants to start killing everybody. Money is no object, and these voices tell us he’ll spend whatever it takes to snuff this thing out. He’s sending in big boys with big guns. Of course, they say he’s deranged, but he’s mean as hell and money can kill a lot of people.”
   This killing talk did not faze Rupert. “Who’s on the list?”
   “The girl. And I guess anyone else on the outside who happens to know about that little paper.”
   “So what’s my plan?”
   “Hang around. We’ll meet here tomorrow night, same time. If we find the girl, it’ll be your show.”
   “How do you plan to find her?”
   “We think she’s in New York. We have ways.”
   Rupert pulled off a piece of cinnamon roll and stuffed it in his mouth. “Where would you be?”
   The messenger thought of a dozen places he might go, but, dammit, they were like Paris and Rome and Monte Carlo, places he’d seen and places everyone went to. He couldn’t think of that one exotic spot where he would go and hide for the rest of his life. “I don’t know. Where would you be?”
   “New York City. You can live there for years and never be seen. You speak the language and know the rules. It’s the perfect hiding place for an American.”
   “Yeah, I guess you’re right. You think she’s there?”
   “I don’t know. At times she’s clever. Then she has bad moments.”
   The messenger was on his feet. “Tomorrow night,” he said.
   Rupert waved him off. What a goofy little twerp, he thought. Running around whispering important messages in coffee shops and beer joints. Then running back to his boss and reliving it all in vivid detail.
   He threw the coffee cup in the trash and was on the sidewalk.


   Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow had a hundred and ninety lawyers, according to the latest edition of the Martindale-Hubbell Legal Directory. And White and Blazevich had four hundred and twelve, so hopefully Garcia was only one of a possible six hundred and two. But if Mattiece used other D.C. firms, the number would be higher and they didn’t have a chance.
   As expected, White and Blazevich had no one named Garcia. Darby searched for another Hispanic name, but found none. It was one of those lily-white silk-stocking outfits filled with Ivy Leaguers with long names that ended in numerals. There were a few female names sprinkled about, but only two were partners. Most of the women had joined after 1980. If she lived long enough to finish law school, she would not consider working for a factory like White and Blazevich.
   Grantham had suggested she check for Hispanics because Garcia was a bit unusual for an alias. Maybe the guy was Hispanic, and since Garcia is common for them, then maybe he just said it real quick. It didn’t work. There were no Hispanics in this firm.
   According to the directory, their clients were big and rich. Banks, Fortune 5005, and lots of oil companies. They listed four of the defendants in the lawsuit as clients, but not Mr. Mattiece. There were chemical companies and shipping lines, and White and Blazevich also represented the governments of South Korea, Libya, and Syria. Silly, she thought. Some of our enemies hire our lawyers to lobby our government. But then, you can hire lawyers to do anything.
   Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow was a smaller version of White and Blazevich, but, gosh, there were four Hispanic names listed. She wrote them down. Two men and two women. She figured this firm must have been sued for race and sex discrimination. In the past ten years they had hired all kinds of people. The client list was predictable—oil and gas, insurance, banks, government relations. Pretty dull stuff.
   She sat in a corner of the Fordham law library for an hour. It was Friday morning, ten in New York and nine in New Orleans, and instead of hiding in a library she’d never seen before, she was supposed to be sitting in Federal Procedure under Alleck, a professor she never liked but now missed sorely. Alice Stark would be sitting next to her. One of her favorite law nerds, D. Ronald Petrie, would be sitting behind her asking for a date and making lewd comments. She missed him too. She missed the quiet mornings on Thomas’ balcony, sipping coffee and waiting for the French Quarter to shake its cobwebs and come to life. She missed the smell of cologne on his bathrobe.
   She thanked the librarian, and left the building. On Sixty-second, she headed east toward the park. It was a brilliant October morning with a perfect sky and cool wind. A pleasant change from New Orleans, but difficult to appreciate under the circumstances. She wore new Ray-Bans and a muffler up to her chin. The hair was still dark, but she would cut no more. She was determined to walk without looking over her shoulder. They probably weren’t back there, but she knew it would be years before she could stroll along a street without a doubt.
   The trees in the park were a magnificent display of yellow and orange and red. The leaves fell gently in the breeze. She turned south on Central Park West. She would leave tomorrow, and spend a few days in Washington. If she survived, she would then leave the country, go maybe to the Caribbean. She’d been there twice, and there were a thousand little islands where most people spoke some form of English.
   Now was the time to leave the country. They’d lost her trail, and she’d already checked on flights to Nassau and Jamaica. She could be there by dark.
   She found a pay phone in the rear of a bagel shop on Sixth, and punched Gray’s number at the Post. “It’s me,” she said.
   “Well, well. I was afraid you had skipped the country.”
   “Thinking about it.”
   “Can you wait a week?”
   “Probably. I’ll be there tomorrow. What do you know?”
   “I’m just gathering junk. I’ve got copies of the annual statements for the seven public corporations involved in the suit.”
   “It’s lawsuit, not suit. A suit is something you wear.”
   “How can you ever forgive me? Mattiece is neither an officer nor director of any.”
   “What else?”
   “Just the thousand phone calls routine. I spent three hours yesterday hanging around courthouses looking for Garcia.”
   “You won’t find him at a courthouse, Gray. He’s not that kind of lawyer. He’s in a corporate firm.”
   “I take it you have a better idea.”
   “I’ve got several ideas.”

   “Well, then, I’m just sitting here waiting on you.”
   “I’ll call you when I get there.”
   “Don’t call me at home.”
   She paused for a second. “May I ask why not?”
   “There’s a chance someone is listening, and maybe following. One of my best sources thinks I’ve ruffled enough feathers to get myself placed under surveillance.”
   “Fabulous. And you want me to rush down there and team up with you?”
   “We’ll be safe, Darby. We just have to be careful.”
   She gripped the phone and clenched her teeth. “How dare you talk to me about being careful! I’ve been dodging bombs and bullets for ten days now, and you’re smug enough to tell me to be careful. Kiss my ass, Grantham! Maybe I should stay away from you.”
   There was a pause as she looked around the tiny café. Two men at the nearest table looked at her. She was much too loud. She turned away and breathed deeply.
   Grantham spoke slowly. “I’m sorry. I—”
   “Forget it. Just forget it.”
   He waited a moment. “Are you okay?”
   “I’m terrific. Never felt better.”
   “Are you coming to D.C.?”
   “I don’t know. I’m safe here, and I’ll be much safer when I get on a plane and leave the country.”
   “Sure, but I thought you had this wonderful idea about finding Garcia, then hopefully nailing Mattiece. I thought you were outraged and morally indignant and motivated by revenge. What’s happened to you?”
   “Well, for one, I have this burning desire to see my twenty-fifth birthday. I’m not selfish, but perhaps I’d like to see my thirtieth too. That would be nice.”
   “I understand.”
   “I’m not sure you understand. I think you’re more concerned with Pulitzers and glory than my pretty little neck.”
   “I assure you that’s not true. Trust me, Darby. You’ll be safe. You’ve told me the story of your life. You must trust me.”
   “I’ll think about it.”
   “That’s not definite.”
   “No, it’s not. Give me some time.”
   “Okay.”
   She hung up, and ordered a bagel. A dozen languages rattled around her as the café was suddenly packed. Run, baby, run, her good sense told her. Take a cab to the airport. Pay cash for a ticket to Miami. Find the nearest flight south, and get on the plane. Let Grantham dig and wish him the best. He was very good, and he’d find a way to break the story. And she would read about it one day while lying on a sun-drenched beach sipping a pina colada and watching the windsurfers.
   Stump limped by on the sidewalk. She caught a glimpse of him through the crowd and through the window. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she was dizzy. He didn’t look inside. He just ambled by, looking rather lost. She ran through the tables and watched him through the door. He limped slightly to the corner of Sixth and Fifty-eighth and waited for the light. He started to cross Sixth, then changed his mind and crossed Fifty-eighth. A taxi almost smeared him.
   He was going nowhere, just strolling along with a slight limp.


   Croft saw the kid as he stepped from an elevator into the atrium. He was with another young lawyer, and they didn’t have their briefcases so it was obvious they were headed for a late lunch. After five days of watching lawyers, Croft had learned their habits.
   The building was on Pennsylvania, and Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow covered floors three through eleven. Garcia left the building with his buddy, and they laughed their way down the sidewalk. Something was very funny. Croft followed as closely as possible. They walked and laughed for five blocks, then, just as he figured, they ducked into a yuppie corporate fern bar for a quick bite.
   Croft called Grantham three times before he got him. It was almost two, and the lunch was winding down by now, and if Grantham wanted to catch the guy, then stay close to the damned phone. Gray slammed it down. They would meet back at the building.
   Garcia and his friend walked a bit slower on the return. It was a beautiful day, and it was Friday, and they enjoyed this brief respite from the grind of suing people or whatever they did for two hundred bucks an hour. Croft hid behind his sunshades and kept his distance.
   Gray was waiting in the lobby near the elevators. Croft was close behind them as they spun through the revolving door. He pointed quickly to their man. Gray caught the signal and punched the elevator button. It opened and he stepped in just before Garcia and his friend. Croft stayed behind.
   Garcia punched number six a split second before Gray punched it too. Gray read the paper and listened as the two lawyers talked football. The kid was no more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. The voice maybe had a vague familiarity to it, but it had been on the phone and there was nothing distinctive about it. The face was close, but he couldn’t study it. The odds said go for it. He looked very similar to the man in the photograph, and he worked for Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow, and one of its countless clients was Mr. Mattiece. He would give it a shot, but be cautious. He was a reporter. It was his job to go barging in with questions.
   They left the elevator on six still yakking about the Redskins, and Gray loitered behind them, casually reading the paper. The firm’s lobby was rich and opulent, with chandeliers and Oriental rugs, and on one wall thick gold letters with the firm’s name. The lawyers stopped at the front desk and picked up their phone messages. Gray strolled purposefully in front of the receptionist, who eyed him carefully.
   “May I help you, sir?” she asked in the tone that meant, “What the hell do you want?”
   Gray did not miss a step. “I’m in a meeting with Roger Martin.” He’d found the name in the phone book, and he’d called from the lobby a minute earlier to make sure lawyer Martin was in today. The building directory listed the firm on floors three through eleven, but did not list all one hundred and ninety lawyers. Using the yellow pages listing, he made a dozen quick calls to find a lawyer on each floor. Roger Martin was the man on the sixth floor.
   He frowned at the receptionist. “I’ve been meeting with him for two hours.”
   This puzzled her, and she could think of nothing to say. Gray was around the corner and into a hallway. He caught a glimpse of Garcia entering his office four doors down.
   The name beside the door was David M. Underwood. Gray did not knock on it. He wanted to strike quickly, and perhaps exit quickly. Mr. Underwood was hanging his jacket on a rack.
   “Hi. I’m Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. I’m looking for a man named Garcia.”
   Underwood froze and looked puzzled. “How’d you get in here?” he asked.
   The voice was suddenly familiar. “I walked. You are Garcia, aren’t you?”
   He pointed to a desk plate with his name in gold letters,


David M. Underwood.

   “There’s no one on this floor named Garcia. I don’t know of a Garcia in this firm.”
   Gray smiled as if to play along. Underwood was scared. Or irritated.
   “How’s your daughter?” Gray asked.
   Underwood was coming around the desk, staring and getting very perturbed. “Which one?”
   This didn’t fit. Garcia had been quite concerned about his daughter, a baby, and if there had been more than one, he would have mentioned it.
   “The youngest. And your wife?”
   Underwood was now within striking distance, and inching closer. It was obvious he was a man unafraid of physical contact.
   “I don’t have a wife. I’m divorced.” He held up his left fist, and for a split second Gray thought he’d gone wild. Then he saw the four ringless fingers. No wife. No ring. Garcia adored his wife, and there would be a ring. It was now time to leave.
   “What do you want?” Underwood demanded.
   “I thought Garcia was on this floor,” he said, easing away.
   “Is your pal Garcia a lawyer?”
   “Yes.”
   Underwood relaxed a bit. “Not in this firm. We have a Perez and a Hernandez, and maybe one other. But I don’t know a Garcia.”
   Well, it’s a big firm,” Gray said by the door. “Sorry to bother.”
   Underwood was following. “Look, Mr. Grantham, we’re not accustomed to reporters barging in around here. I’ll call security, and maybe they can help you.”
   “Won’t be necessary. Thanks.” Grantham was in the hall and gone. Underwood reported to security.
   Grantham cursed himself in the elevator. It was empty except for him, and he cursed out loud. Then he thought of Croft, and was cursing him when the elevator landed and opened, and there was Croft in the lobby near the pay phones. Cool it, he told himself.
   They left the building together. “Didn’t work,” Gray said.
   “Did you talk to him?”
   “Yep. Wrong man.”
   Dammit. I knew it was him. It was the kid in the photos, wasn’t it?”
   “No. Close but no cigar. Keep trying.”
   “I’m really tired of this, Grantham. I’ve—”
   “You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Do it for one more week, okay? I can think of harder work.”
   Croft stopped on the sidewalk, and Gray kept walking. “One more week, and I’m through,” Croft yelled to him. Grantham waved him off.
   He unlocked the illegally parked Volvo and sped back to the Post. It was not a smart move. It was quite stupid, and he was much too experienced for such a mistake. He would omit it from his daily chat with Jackson Feldman and Smith Keen.


   Feldman was looking for him, another reporter said, and he walked quickly to his office. He smiled sweetly to the secretary, who was poised to attack. Keen and Howard Krauthammer, the managing editor, were waiting with Feldman. Keen closed the door and handed Gray a newspaper. “Have you seen this?”
   It was the New Orleans paper, the Times-Picayune, and the front-page story was about the deaths of Verheek and Callahan, along with big photos. He read it quickly while they watched him. It talked about their friendship, and their strange deaths just six days apart. And it mentioned Darby Shaw, who had disappeared. But no link to the brief.
   “I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Feldman said.
   “It’s nothing but the basics,” Gray said. “We could’ve run this three days ago.”
   “Why didn’t we?” asked Krauthammer.
   “There’s nothing here. It’s two dead bodies, the name of the girl, and a thousand questions, none of which they answered. They’ve found a cop who’ll talk, but he knows nothing beyond the blood and gore.”
   “But they’re digging, Gray,” Keen said.
   “You want me to stop them?”
   “The Times has picked it up,” Feldman said. “They’re running something tomorrow or Sunday. How much can they know?”
   “Why ask me? Look, it’s possible they have a copy of the brief. Very unlikely, but possible. But they haven’t talked to the girl. We’ve got the girl, okay? She’s ours.”
   “We hope,” said Krauthammer.
   Feldman rubbed his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Let’s say they have a copy of the brief, and that they know she wrote it, and now she’s vanished. They can’t verify it right now, but they’re not afraid to mention the brief without naming Mattiece. Let’s say they know Callahan was her professor, among other things, and that he brought the brief here and gave it to his good friend Verheek. And now they’re dead and she’s on the run. That’s a pretty damned good story, wouldn’t you say, Gray?”
   “It’s a big story,” Krauthammer said.
   “It’s peanuts compared to what’s coming,” Gray said. “I don’t want to run it because it’s the tip of the iceberg, and it’ll attract every paper in the country. We don’t need a thousand reporters bumping into each other.”
   “I say we run it,” Krauthammer said. “If not, the Times will beat our ass with it.”
   “We can’t run the story,” Gray said.
   “Why not?” asked Krauthammer.
   “Because I’m not going to write it, and if it’s written by someone else here, then we lose the girl. It’s that simple. She’s debating right now about whether to jump on a plane and leave the country, and one mistake by us and she’s gone.”
   “But she’s already spilled her guts,” Keen said.
   “I gave her my word, okay? I will not write the story until it’s pieced together and Mattiece can be named. It’s very simple.”
   “You’re using her, aren’t you?” Keen asked.
   “She’s a source. But she’s not in the city.”
   “If the Times has the brief, then they know about Mattiece,” Feldman said. “And if they know about Mattiece, you can bet they’ie digging like hell to verify it. What if they beat us?”
   Krauthammer grunted in disgust. “We’re going to sit on our asses and lose the biggest story I’ve seen in twenty years. I say we run what we’ve got. It’s just the surface, but it’s a helluva story right now.”