Four Arabs noisily filled a table next to them, yakking and jabbering in their language. All four ordered Jack Daniel's.
"Who killed them, Gavin?"
He chewed for a minute, then swallowed hard. "If I knew, I wouldn't tell. But I swear I do not know. It's baffling. The killers vanished without a trace. It was meticulously planned and perfectly executed. Not a clue."
"Why the combination?"
He stuffed another in his mouth. "Quite simple. It's so simple, it's easy to overlook. They were such natural targets. Rosenberg had no security system in his townhouse. Any decent cat burglar could come and go. And poor Jensen was hanging around those places at midnight. They were exposed. At the exact moment each died, the other seven Supremes had FBI agents in their homes. That's why they were selected. They were stupid."
"Then who selected them?"
"Someone with a lot of money. The killers were professionals, and they were probably out of the country within hours. We figure there were three, maybe more. The mess at Rosenberg's could have been done by just one. We figure there were at least two working on Jensen. One or more looking out while the guy with the rope did his thing. Even though it was a dirty little place, it was open to the public, and quite risky. But they were good, very good."
"I've read a lone assassin theory."
"Forget it. It's impossible for one man to kill both of them. Impossible."
"How much would these killers charge?"
"Millions. And it took a bunch of money to plan it all."
"And you have no idea?"
"Look, Thomas, I'm not involved in the investigation, so you'll have to ask those guys. I'm sure they know a helluva lot more than I do. I'm just a lowly government lawyer."
"Yeah, who just happens to be on a first-name basis with the Chief Justice."
"He calls occasionally. This is boring. Let's get back to women. I hate lawyer talk."
"Have you talked to him lately?"
"Picking, Thomas, always picking. Yes, we chatted briefly this morning. He's got all twenty-seven law clerks scouring the federal dockets high and low looking for clues. It's fruitless, and I told him so. Every case that reaches the Supreme Court has at least two parties, and each party involved would certainly benefit if one or two or three justices would disappear and be replaced by one or two or three more sympathetic to its cause. There are thousands of appeals that could eventually end up here, and you can't just pick one and say 'This is it! This is the one that got 'em killed.' It's silly."
"What did he say?"
"Of course he agreed with my brilliant analysis. I think he called after he read the Post story to see if he could squeeze something out of me. Can you believe the nerve?"
The waiter hovered over them with a hurried look.
Verheek glanced at the menu, closed it, and handed it to him. "Grilled swordfish, blue cheese, no vegetable."
"I'll eat the mushrooms," Callahan said. The waiter disappeared.
Callahan reached into his coat pocket and removed a thick envelope. He laid it on the table next to the empty Moosehead. "Take a look at this when you get a chance."
"What is it?"
"It's sort of a brief."
"I hate briefs, Thomas. In fact, I hate the law, and the lawyers, and with the exception of you, I hate law professors."
"Darby wrote it."
"I'll read it tonight. What's it about?"
"I think I told you. She is very bright and intelligent, and a very aggressive student. She writes better than most. Her passion, other than me of course, is constitutional law."
"Poor thing."
"She took off four days last week, totally ignored me and the rest of the world, and came up with her own theory, which she has now discarded. But read it anyway. It's fascinating."
"Who's the suspect?"
The Arabs erupted in screaming laughter, slapping each other and spilling whiskey. They watched them for a minute until they died down.
"Don't you hate a bunch of drunks?" Verheek said.
"It's sickening."
Verheek stuffed the envelope into his coat on the back of his chair. "What's her theory?"
"It's a bit unusual. But read it. I mean, it can't hurt, can it? You guys need the help."
"I'll read it only because she wrote it. How is she in bed?"
"How's your wife in bed?"
"Rich. In the shower, in the kitchen, at the grocery. She's rich in everything she does."
"It can't last."
"She'll file by the end of the year. Maybe I'll get the townhouse and some change."
"No prenuptial agreement?"
"Yes, there is, but I'm a lawyer, remember. It's got more loopholes than a tax reform act. A buddy of mine prepared it. Don't you love the law?"
"Let's talk about something else."
"Women?"
"I've got an idea. You want to meet the girl, right?"
"We're talking about Darby?"
"Yes. Darby."
"I'd love to meet her."
"We're going to St. Thomas during Thanksgiving. Why don't you meet us there?"
"Do I have to bring my wife?"
"No. She's not invited."
"Will she run around in a little string job on the beach? Sort of put on a show for us?"
"Probably."
"Wow. I can't believe this."
"You can get a condo next to us, and we'll have a ball."
"Beautiful, beautiful. Just beautiful."
The phone rang four times, the answering machine clicked on, the recorded voice echoed through the apartment, the beep, then no message. It rang again four times, same routine, and no message. A minute later it rang again, and Gray Grantham grabbed it from bed. He sat on a pillow, trying to focus.
"Who is it?" he asked in pain. There was no light coming through the window.
The voice on the other end was low and timid. "Is this Gray Grantham with the Washington Post?"
"It is. Who's calling?"
Slowly, "I can't give you my name."
The fog lifted and he focused on the clock. It was five-forty. "Okay, forget the name. Why are you calling?"
"I saw your story yesterday about the White House and the nominees."
"That's good." You and a million others. "Why are you calling me at this obscene hour?"
"I'm sorry. I'm on my way to work and stopped at a pay phone. I can't call from home or the office."
The voice was clear, articulate, and appeared to be intelligent. "What kind of office?"
"I'm an attorney."
Great. Washington was home for half a million lawyers. "Private or government?"
A slight hesitation. "Uh, I'd rather not say."
"Okay. Look, I'd rather be sleeping. Why, exactly, did you call?"
"I may know something about Rosenberg and Jensen."
Grantham sat on the edge of the bed. "Such as - " A much longer pause. "Are you recording this?"
"No. Should I?"
"I don't know. I'm really very scared and confused, Mr. Grantham. I prefer not to record this. Maybe the next call, okay?"
"Whatever you want. I'm listening."
"Can this call be traced?"
"Possibly, I guess. But you're at a pay phone, right? What difference does it make?"
"I don't know. I'm just scared."
"It's okay. I swear I'm not recording and I swear I won't trace it. Now, what's on your mind?"
"Well, I think I may know who killed them."
Grantham was standing. "That's some pretty valuable knowledge."
"It could get me killed. Do you think they're following me?"
"Who? Who would be following you?"
"I don't know." The voice trailed off, as if he was looking over his shoulder.
Grantham was pacing by the bed. "Relax. Why don't you tell me your name, okay? I swear it's confidential."
"Garcia."
"That's not a real name, is it?"
"Of course not, but it's the best I can do."
"Okay, Garcia. Talk to me."
"I'm not certain, okay? But I think I stumbled across something at the office that I was not supposed to see."
"Do you have a copy of it?"
"Maybe."
"Look, Garcia. You called me, right. Do you want to talk or not?"
"I'm not sure. What will you do if I tell you something?"
"Check it out thoroughly. If we're gonna accuse someone of the assassinations of two Supreme Court Justices, believe me, the story will be handled delicately." There was a very long silence. Grantham froze by the rocker and waited. "Garcia. Are you there?"
"Yeah. Can we talk later?"
"Of course. We can talk now."
"I need to think about this. I haven't eaten or slept in a week, and I'm not thinking rationally. I might call you later."
"Okay, okay. That's fine. You can call me at work at - "
"No. I won't call you at work. Sorry I woke you." He hung up. Grantham looked at the row of numbers on his phone and punched seven digits, waited, then six more, then four more. He scribbled a number on a pad by the phone, and hung up. The pay phone was on Fifteenth Street in Pentagon City.
Gavin Verheek slept four hours and woke up drunk. When he arrived at the Hoover Building an hour later, the alcohol was fading and the pain was settling in. He cursed himself and he cursed Callahan, who no doubt would sleep until noon and wake up fresh and alive and ready for the flight to New Orleans. They had left the restaurant when it closed at midnight, then hit a few bars and joked about catching a skin flick or two, but since their favorite movie house had been bombed they couldn't. So they just drank until three or four.
He had a meeting with Director Voyles at eleven, and it was imperative to appear sober and alert. It would be impossible. He told his secretary to close the door, and explained to her that he had caught a nasty virus, maybe the flu, and he was to be left alone at his desk unless it was awfully damned important. She studied his eyes and seemed to sniff more than usual. The smell of beer does not always evaporate with sleep.
She left and closed the door behind her. He locked it. To make things equal, he called Callahan's room, but no one answered.
What a life. His best friend earned almost as much as he did, but worked thirty hours in a busy week, and had his pick of pliant young things twenty years his junior. Then he remembered their grand plans for the week in St. Thomas, and the thought of Darby strolling along the beach. He would go, even if it caused a divorce.
A wave of nausea rippled through his chest and up his esophagus, and he quickly lay still on the floor. Cheap government carpet. He breathed deeply, and the pounding started at the top of his head. The plaster ceiling was not spinning, and this was encouraging. After three minutes, it was evident he would not vomit, at least not now.
His briefcase was within reach, and he carefully slid it next to him. He found the envelope inside with the morning paper. He opened it, unfolded the brief, and held it with both hands six inches above his face.
It was thirteen letter-sized pages of computer paper, all double-spaced with wide margins. He could handle it. Notes were scribbled in the margins by hand and whole sections were marked through. The words FIRST DRAFT were handwritten with a felt pen across the top. Her name, address, and phone number were typed on the cover sheet.
He would skim it for a few minutes while he was on the floor, then hopefully he would feel like sitting at the desk and going through the motions of being an important government lawyer. He thought of Voyles, and the pounding intensified.
She wrote well, in the standard, scholarly legal fashion of long sentences filled with large words. But she was clear. She avoided the double-talk and legal lingo most students strive so desperately for. She would never make it as an attorney employed by the United States Government.
Gavin had never heard of her suspect, and was certain it was not on anyone's list. Technically, it was not a brief, but more of a story about a lawsuit in Louisiana. She told the facts succinctly, and made them interesting. Fascinating, really. He was not skimming.
The facts took four pages, then she filled the next three with brief histories of the parties. It dragged a bit here, but he kept reading. He was hooked. On page eight, the briefer whatever it was summarized the trial. On nine, it mentioned the appeal, and the final three pages laid an implausible trail to the removal of Rosenberg and Jensen from the Court. Callahan said she had already discarded this theory, and she appeared to lose steam at the end.
But it was highly readable. For a moment he had forgotten his current state of pain, and read thirteen pages of a law student's brief while lying on the floor on dirty carpet with a million things to do.
There was a soft knock at the door. He slowly sat up, gingerly stood, and walked to the door. "Yes."
It was the secretary. "I hate to bother. But the Director wants you in his office in ten minutes."
Verheek opened the door. "What?"
"Yes, sir. Ten minutes."
He rubbed his eyes and breathed rapidly. "What for?"
"I get demoted for asking those questions, sir."
"Do you have any mouthwash?"
"Well, yes, I believe so. Do you want it?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want it. Bring it to me. Do you have any gum?"
"Gum?"
"Chewing gum."
"Yes, sir. Do you want it too?"
"Just bring me the mouthwash and gum, and some aspirin if you have it." He walked to his desk and sat down, holding his head in his hands and rubbing his temples. He heard her banging drawers, and then she was before him with the goods.
"Thanks. I'm sorry I snapped." He pointed at the brief in a chair by the door. "Send that brief to Eric East, he's on the fourth floor. Write a note from me. Tell him to look it over when he has a minute."
She left with the brief.
Fletcher Coal opened the door to the Oval Office, and spoke gravely to K. O. Lewis and Eric East. The President was in Puerto Rico viewing hurricane damage, and Director Voyles now refused to meet with Coal alone. He sent his underlings.
Coal waved them to a sofa, and he sat across the coffee table. His coat was buttoned and his tie was perfect. He never relaxed. East had heard tales about his habits. He worked twenty hours a day, seven days a week, drank nothing but water, and ate most meals from a vending machine in the basement. He could read like a computer, and spent hours each day reviewing memos, reports, correspondence, and mountains of pending legislation. He had perfect recall. For a week now they had brought daily reports of their investigation to this office, and handed them to Coal, who devoured the material and memorized it for the next meeting. If they misstated something, he would terrorize them. He was hated, but it was impossible not to respect him. He was smarter than them, and he worked harder. And he knew it.
He was smug in the emptiness of the Oval Office. His boss was away performing for the cameras, but the real power had stayed behind to run the country.
K. O. Lewis placed a four-inch stack of the latest on the table.
"Anything new?" Coal asked.
"Maybe. The French authorities were routinely reviewing footage taken by the security cameras at the Paris airport, and they thought they recognized a face. They checked it against two other cameras in the concourse, different angles, then reported to Interpol. The face is disguised, but Interpol believes it is Khamel, the terrorist. I'm sure you've heard of - "
"I have."
"They've studied the footage at length, and are almost certain he exited a plane that arrived nonstop from Dulles last Wednesday, about ten hours after Jensen was found."
"The Concorde?"
"No, United. Based on the time and the locations of the cameras, they have ways of determining the gates and flights."
"And Interpol contacted the CIA?"
"Yes. They talked to Gminski around one this afternoon."
Coal's face registered nothing. "How certain are they?"
"Eighty percent. He's a master of disguise, and it would be a bit unusual for him to travel in such a manner. So there's room for doubt. We've got photos and a summary for the President's review. Frankly, I've studied the pictures, and I can't tell anything. But Interpol knows him."
"He hasn't been willingly photographed in years, has he?"
"Not that we know of. And rumor has it he goes under the knife and gets a new face every two or three years."
Coal pondered this for a second. "Okay. What if it's Khamel, and what if he was involved in the killings? What does it mean?"
"It means we'll never find him. There are at least nine countries, including Israel, actively stalking him right now. It means he was paid a bunch of money by someone to use his talents here. We've said all along the killer or killers were professionals who were gone before the bodies were cold."
"So it means little."
"You could say that."
"Fine. What else do you have?"
Lewis glanced at Eric East. "Well, we have the usual daily summary."
"They've been rather dry as of late."
