The Pelican Brief (23 page)

“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 face 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 suitcase 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.

23
________

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.

24
________

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?”