The Pelican Brief (16 page)

“What have you learned?”

“Not much, but we just started. We got it less than forty-eight hours ago, and I assigned fourteen agents in New Orleans to start digging. It’s all routine.” The lies sounded so good he could almost hear Coal choking.

Fourteen! It hit him in the gut so hard he sat up straight and placed the coffee on a table. Fourteen Fibbies out there flashing badges, asking questions, and it was just a matter of time before this thing got out. “Fourteen, you say. Sounds like it’s pretty serious.”

Voyles was unyielding. “We’re very serious, Mr. President. They’ve been dead a week, and the trail’s growing colder. We’re tracking leads as fast as we can. My men are working around the clock.”

“I understand all that, but how serious is this pelican theory?”

Damn, this was fun. The brief had yet to be sent to New Orleans. In fact, New Orleans had not been contacted. He had instructed Eric East to mail a copy to that office with orders to quietly ask a few questions. It was a dead end, just like a hundred others they were chasing.

“I doubt if there’s anything to it, Mr. President, but we’ve got to check it out.”

The wrinkles relaxed and there was a touch of a smile. “I don’t have to tell you, Denton, how much this nonsense could hurt if the press found out.”

“We don’t consult the press when we investigate.”

“I know. Let’s not get into that. I just wish you would back off this thing. I mean, what the hell, it’s absurd, and I could really get burned. Know what I’m saying?”

Voyles was brutal. “Are you asking me to ignore a suspect, Mr. President?”

Coal leaned toward the screen. No, I’m telling you to forget this pelican brief! He almost said it out loud. He could make it real plain for Voyles. He could spell it out, then slap the dumpy little wretch if he got smart. But he was hiding in a locked room, away from the action. And, for the moment, he knew he was where he belonged.

The President shifted and recrossed his legs at the knees. “Come on, Denton, you know what I’m saying. There are bigger fish in the pond. The press is watching this investigation, just dying to find out who’s a suspect. You know how they are. I don’t have to tell you that I have no friends with the press. Even my own press secretary dislikes me. Ha, ha, ha. Forget about it for a while. Back off and chase the real suspects. This thing is a joke, but it could embarrass the hell out of me.”

Denton looked hard at him. Relentless.

The President shifted again. “What about this Khamel thing? Sounds pretty good, huh?”

“Could be.”

“Yeah. Since we’re talking numbers, how many men have you assigned to Khamel?”

Voyles said, “Fifteen,” and almost laughed. The President’s mouth fell open. The hottest suspect in the game gets fifteen, and this damned pelican thing gets fourteen.

Coal smiled and shook his head. Voyles had been caught in his own lies. On the bottom of page four of the Wednesday report, Eric East and K. O. Lewis gave the number at thirty, not fifteen. Relax, Chief, Coal whispered to the screen. He’s playing with you.

The President was anything but relaxed. “Good god, Denton. Why only fifteen? I thought this was a significant break.”

“Maybe a few more than that. I’m running this investigation, Mr. President.”

“I know. And you’re doing a fine job. I’m not meddling. I just wish you’d consider spending your time elsewhere. That’s all. When I read the pelican brief I almost vomited. If the press saw it and started digging, I’d be crucified.”

“So you’re asking me to back off?”

The President leaned forward and stared fiercely at Voyles. “I’m not asking, Denton. I’m telling you to leave it alone. Ignore it for a couple of weeks. Spend your time elsewhere. If it flares up again, take another look. I’m still the boss around here, remember?”

Voyles relented and managed a tiny smile. “I’ll make you a deal. Your hatchet man Coal has done a number on me with the press. They’ve eaten my lunch over the security we provided to Rosenberg and Jensen.”

The President nodded solemnly.

“You get that pit bull off my ass, keep him away from me, and I’ll forget the pelican theory.”

“I don’t make deals.”

Voyles sneered but kept his cool. “Good. I’ll send fifty agents to New Orleans tomorrow. And fifty the next day. We’ll be flashing badges all over town and doing our damnedest to attract attention.”

The President jumped to his feet and walked to the windows overlooking the Rose Garden. Voyles sat motionless and waited.

“All right, all right. It’s a deal. I can control Fletcher Coal.”

Voyles stood and walked slowly to the desk. “I don’t trust him, and if I smell him one more time during this investigation, the deal’s off and we investigate the pelican brief with all the weight I can muster.”

The President held up his hands and smiled warmly. “It’s a deal.”

Voyles was smiling and the President was smiling, and in the closet near the Cabinet Room Fletcher Coal was smiling at a screen. Hatchet man, pit bull. He loved it. Those were the words that created legends.

He turned off the screens and locked the door behind him. They would talk another ten minutes about the background checks on the short list, and he would listen in his office where he had audio but no video. He had a staff meeting at nine. A firing at ten. And he had some typing to do. With most memos, he simply dictated into the machine and handed the tape to a secretary. But occasionally, Coal found it necessary to resort to the phantom memo. These were always widely circulated in the West Wing, and always
controversial as hell, and usually dripped to the press. Because they came from no one, they could be found lying on almost every desk. Coal would scream and accuse. He had fired people for phantom memos, all of which came from his typewriter.

It was four single-spaced paragraphs on one page, and it summarized what he knew about Khamel and his recent flight out of Washington. And there were vague links to the Libyans and Palestinians. Coal admired it. How long before it would be in the
Post
or the
Times
? He made little bets with himself about which paper would get it first.

________

The director was at the White House, and from there would fly to New York and return tomorrow. Gavin camped outside the office of K. O. Lewis until there was a small opening. He was in.

Lewis was irritated, but always the gentleman. “You look scared.”

“I’ve just lost my best friend.”

Lewis waited for more.

“His name was Thomas Callahan. He’s the guy from Tulane who brought me the pelican brief, and it got passed around, then sent to the White House and who knows where else, and now he’s dead. Blown to bits by a car bomb last night in New Orleans. Murdered, K.O.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a matter of being sorry. Evidently the bomb was intended for Callahan and the student who wrote it, a girl by the name of Darby Shaw.”

“I saw her name on the brief.”

“That’s right. They’ve been dating, and were supposed to be in the car together when it exploded. But she survived, and I get this call this morning at five, and it’s her. Scared to death.”

Lewis listened, but was already dismissing it. “You’re not certain it was a bomb.”

“She said it was a bomb, okay. It went BOOM! and blew the hell out of everything, okay. I’m certain he’s dead.”

“And you think there’s a connection between his death and the brief?”

Gavin was a lawyer, untrained in the art of investigation, and he did not wish to appear gullible. “There could be. I think so, yes. Don’t you?”

“Doesn’t matter, Gavin. I just got off the phone with the Director. Pelican’s off our list. I’m not sure it was ever on, but we’re spending no more time on it.”

“But my friend’s been killed with a car bomb.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure the authorities down there are investigating.”

“Listen to me, K.O. I’m asking for a favor.”

“Listen to me, Gavin. I don’t have any favors. We’re chasing enough rabbits right now, and if the Director says stop, then we stop. You’re free to talk to him. I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Maybe I’m not handling this right. I thought you would listen to me, and at least act interested.”

Lewis was walking around the desk. “Gavin, you look bad. Take the day off.”

“No. I’ll go to my office, wait an hour, and come back in here and do this again. Can we try it again in an hour?”

“No. Voyles was explicit.”

“So was the girl, K.O. He was murdered, and now she’s hiding somewhere in New Orleans afraid of her shadow, calling us for help, and we’re too busy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. It’s my fault. I should’ve thrown the damned thing in the garbage.”

“It served a valuable purpose, Gavin.” Lewis placed his hand on his shoulder as if his time was up and he was tired of this drivel. Gavin jerked away and headed for the door.

“Yeah, it gave you guys something to play with. I should’ve burned it.”

“It’s too good to burn, Gavin.”

“I’m not giving up. I’ll be back in an hour, and we’ll do this again. This didn’t go right.” Verheek slammed the door behind him.

________

She entered Rubinstein Brothers from Canal Street, and got lost between the racks of men’s shirts. No one followed her in. She quickly picked out a navy parka, men’s small, a genderless pair of aviator sunglasses, and a British driving cap that was also a men’s small but fit. She paid for it with plastic. As the clerk ran the card through, she picked the tags off, and put the parka on. It was baggy, like something she would wear to class. She stuffed her hair under the hooded collar. The clerk watched discreetly. She exited on Magazine Street, and got lost in the crowd.

Back on Canal. A busload of tourists swarmed into the Sheraton, and she joined them. She went to the wall of phones, found the number, and called Mrs. Chen, her neighbor in the duplex next door.
Had she seen or heard anyone? Very early, there was a knock on the door. It was still dark, and woke them. She didn’t see anyone, just heard the knock. Her car was still on the street. Everything okay? Yes, all’s fine. Thanks.

She watched the tourists and punched the inside number for Gavin Verheek. Inside meant a minor hassle only, and after three minutes of refusing to give her name and repeating his, she had him.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Let me explain something. For the moment, I will not tell you or anyone else where I am. So don’t ask.”

“All right. I guess you’re making the rules.”

“Thank you. What did Mr. Voyles say?”

“Mr. Voyles was at the White House and unavailable. I’ll try to talk to him later today.”

“That’s pretty weak, Gavin. You’ve been at the office for almost four hours, and you have nothing. I expected more.”

“Be patient, Darby.”

“Patience will get me killed. They’re after me, aren’t they, Gavin?”

“I don’t know.”

“What would you do if you knew you were supposed to be dead, and the people trying to kill you have had assassinated two Supreme Court Justices, and knocked off a simple law professor, and they have billions of dollars which they obviously don’t mind using to kill with? What would you do, Gavin?”

“Go to the FBI.”

“Thomas went to the FBI, and he’s dead.”

“Thanks, Darby. That’s not fair.”

“I’m not worried about fairness or feelings. I’m more concerned with staying alive until noon.”

“Don’t go to your apartment.”

“I’m not stupid. They’ve already been there. And I’m sure they’re watching his apartment.”

“Where’s his family?”

“His parents live in Naples, Florida. I guess the university will contact them. I don’t know. He has a brother in Mobile, and I thought of calling him and trying to explain all this.”

She saw a face. He walked among the tourists at the registration desk. He held a folded newspaper and tried to appear at home, just another guest, but his walk was a bit hesitant and his eyes were searching. The face was long and thin with round glasses and a shiny forehead.

“Gavin, listen to me. Write this down. I see a man I’ve seen before, not long ago. An hour maybe. Six feet two or three, thin, thirty years old, glasses, receding hair, dark in color. He’s gone. He’s gone.”

“Who the hell is it?”

“We haven’t met, dammit!”

“Did he see you? Where the hell are you?”

“In a hotel lobby. I don’t know if he saw me. I’m gone.”

“Darby! Listen to me. Whatever you do, keep in touch with me, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

The rest room was around the corner. She went to the last stall, locked the door behind her, and stayed there for an hour.

17
________

THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S NAME was Croft, and he’d worked for the
Post
for seven years until his third drug conviction sent him away for nine months. Upon parole, he declared himself to be a freelance artist, and advertised as such in the yellow pages. The phone seldom rang. He did a little of this work; this slithering around shooting people who did not know they were targets. Many of his clients were divorce lawyers who needed dirt for trial. After two years of freelancing, he had picked up a few tricks and now considered himself a halfass private investigator. He charged forty bucks an hour when he could get it.

Another client was Gray Grantham, an old friend from his newspaper days who called when he needed dirt. Grantham was a serious, ethical reporter with just a touch of sleaze, and when he needed a dirty trick, he called. He liked Grantham because he was honest about his sleaziness. The rest were so pious.

He was in Grantham’s Volvo because it had a phone. It was noon, and he was smoking his lunch,
wondering if the smell would linger with all the windows down. He did his best work half-stoned. When you stare at motels for a living, you need to be stoned.

There was a nice breeze coming in from the passenger’s side, blowing the smell onto Pennsylvania. He was parked illegally, smoking dope, and not really concerned. He had less than an ounce on him, and his probation officer smoked it too, so what the hell.

The phone booth was a block and a half ahead, on the sidewalk but away from the street. With his telephoto lens, he could almost read the phone book hanging from the rack. Piece of cake. A large woman was inside, filling the booth and talking with her hands. Croft took a drag and watched the mirror for cops. This was a tow-away zone. Traffic was heavy on Pennsylvania.