The Best Laid Plans (18 page)

The other people in the room were turning to stare at her.

"You can go to hell," Dana sobbed. And she fled from the room.

Jeff turned to Matt. "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to "

"It wasn't your fault. She hasn't come home yet. And God knows she's entitled to a bad case of nerves."

Dana hurried into her office and slammed the door. She went to her desk and sat down, fighting hysteria. Oh, Cod. I've made a complete fool of myself. They'll fire me, and I deserve it. Why did I attack that man? How could I have done anything so awful? I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere anymore. She sat there with her head on the desk, sobbing. A few minutes later, the door opened and someone came in. Dana looked up. It was Jeff Connors, carrying a tray with a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and a slice of pie a la mode. "You forgot your lunch," Jeff said mildly. Dana wiped away her tears, mortified. "I I want to apologize. I'm so sorry. I had no right to "You had every right," he said quietly. "Anyway, who needs to watch a dumb old baseball game?" Jeff put the tray on the desk. "May I join you for lunch?" He sat down. "I'm not hungry. Thank you."

He sighed. "You're putting me in a very difficult position, Miss Evans. Mart says you have to eat. You don't want to get me fired, do you?"

Dana managed a smile. "No." She picked up half of the sandwich and took a small bite.

"Bigger."

Dana took another small bite.

"Bigger."

She looked up at him. "You're really going to make me eat this, aren't you?"

"You bet I am." He watched her take a larger bite of the sandwich "That's better. By the way, if you're not doing anything Friday night, I don't know if I mentioned it, but there's a game between the Orioles and the Yankees. Would you like to go?"

She looked at him and nodded. "Yes."

At three o'clock that afternoon, when Dana walked into the White House entrance, the guard said, "Mr. Tager would like to see you, Miss Evans. I'll have someone take you to his office." A few minutes later, one of the guides led Dana down a long corridor to Peter Tager's office. He was waiting for her. "Mr. Tager ..." "I didn't expect to see you so soon, Miss Evans. Won't your station give you any time off?" "I didn't want any," Dana said. "I I need to work."

"Please sit down." She sat across from him. "Can I offer you anything?" "No, thanks. I just had lunch." She smiled to herself at the recollection of Jeff Connors. "Mr. Tager, I want to thank you and President Russell so much for rescuing me." She hesitated. "I know the Tribune hasn't been too kind to the president, and I " Peter Tager raised a hand. "This was something above politics. There was no chance that the president was going to let them get away with this. You know the story of Helen of Troy?" "Yes." He smiled. "Well, we might have started a war over you. You're a very important person." "I don't feel very important." "I want you to know how pleased both the president and I are that you've been assigned to cover the White House." "Thank you." He paused for a moment. "It's unfortunate that the Tribune doesn't like President Russell, and there's nothing you can do about it. But in spite of that, on a very personal level, if there's anything the president or I can do to help ... we both have an enormous regard for you." "Thank you. I appreciate that." The door opened and Oliver walked in. Dana and Peter Tager stood up. "Sit down," Oliver said. He walked over to Dana. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Mr. President," Dana said. "And I do mean thank you."

Oliver smiled. "If you can't save someone's life, what's the point of being president? I want to be frank with you, Miss Evans. None of us here is a fan of your newspaper. All of us are your fans."

"Thank you."

"Peter is going to give you a tour of the White House. If you have any problems, we're here to help you."

"You're very kind."

"If you don't mind, I want you to meet with Mr. Werner, the secretary of state. I'd like to have him get a firsthand briefing from you on the situation in Herzegovina."

"I'd be happy to do that," Dana said.

There were a dozen men seated in the secretary of state's private conference room, listening to Dana describe her experiences. "Most of the buildings in Sarajevo have been damaged or destroyed.... There's no electricity, and the people there who still have cars unhook the car batteries at night to run their television sets.... "The streets of the city are obstructed by the wreckage of bombed automobiles, carts, and bicycles. The main form of transportation is walking.... "When there's a storm, people catch the water from the street gutters and put it into buckets.... "There's no respect for the Red Cross or for the journalists there. More than forty correspondents have been killed covering the Bosnian war, and dozens have been wounded.... Whether the present revolt against Slobodan Milosevic is successful or not, the feeling is that because of the popular uprising, his regime has been badly damaged...."

The meeting went on for two hours. For Dana it was both traumatic and cathartic, because as she described what happened, she found herself living the terrible scenes all over again; and at the same time, she found it a. relief to be able to talk about it. When she was finished, she felt drained.

The secretary of state said, "I want to thank you, Miss Evans. This has been very informative." He smiled. "I'm glad you got back here safely."

"So am I, Mr. Secretary."

Friday night, Dana was seated next to Jeff Connors in the press box at Camden Yards, watching the baseball game. And for the first time since she had returned, she was able to think about something other than the war. As Dana watched the players on the field, she listened to the announcer reporting the game. "... it's the top of the sixth inning and Nelson is pitching. Alomar hits a line drive down the left-field line for a double. Palmeiro is approaching the plate. The count is two and one. Nelson throws a fastball down the middle and Palmeiro is going for it. What a hit! It looks like it's going to clear the right 9-30 field wall. It's over! Palmeiro is rounding the bases with a two-run homer that puts the Orioles in the lead...."

At the seventh-inning stretch, Jeff stood up and looked at Dana. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Dana looked at him and nodded. "Yes."

Back in D. C. after the game, they had supper at Bistro Twenty Fifteen.

"I want to apologize again for the way I behaved the other day," Dana said. "It's just that I've been living in a world where " She stopped, not sure how to phrase it. "Where everything is a matter of life and death. Everything. It's awful. Because unless someone stops the war, those people have no hope."

Jeff said gently, "Dana, you can't put your life on hold because of what's happening over there. You have to begin living again. Here."

"I know. It's just... not easy."

"Of course it isn't. I'd like to help you. Would you let me?"

Dana looked at him for a long time. "Please."

The next day, Dana had a luncheon date with Jeff Connors. "Can you pick me up?" he asked. He gave her the address. "Right." Dana wondered what Jeff was doing there. It was in a very troubled inner-city neighborhood. When Dana arrived, she found the answer.

Jeff was surrounded by two teams of baseball players, ranging in age from nine to thirteen, dressed in a creative variety of baseball uniforms. Dana parked at the curb to watch.

"And remember," Jeff was saying, "don't rush. When the pitcher throws the ball, imagine that it's coming at you very slowly, so that you have plenty of time to hit it. Feel your bat smacking the ball. Let your mind help guide your hands so "

Jeff looked over and saw Dana. He waved. "All right, fellows. That's it for now."

One of the boys asked, "Is that your girl, Jeff?"

"Only if I'm lucky." Jeff smiled. "See you later." He walked over to Dana's car.

"That's quite a ball club," Dana said.

"They're good boys. I coach them once a week."

She smiled. "I like that." And she wondered how Kemal was and what he was doing.

As the days went on, Dana found herself coming to like Jeff Connors more and more. He was sensitive, intelligent, and amusing. She enjoyed being with him. Slowly, the horrible memories of Sarajevo were beginning to fade. The morning came when she woke up without having had nightmares. When she told Jeff about it, he took her hand and said, "That's my girl."

And Dana wondered whether she should read a deeper meaning into it.

There was a hand-printed letter waiting for Dana at the office. It read: "miss evans, don't worry about me. i'm happy, i am not lonely, i don't miss anybody, and i am going to send you back the clothes you bought me because i don't need them, i have my own clothes, goodbye.

It was signed "kemal." The letter was postmarked Paris, and the letterhead read "Xavier's Home for Boys." Dana read the letter twice and then picked up the phone. It took her four hours to reach Kemal She heard his voice, a tentative "Hello ..." "Kemal, this is Dana Evans." There was no response. "I got your letter." Silence. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad you're so happy, and that you're having such a good time." She waited a moment, then went on, "I wish I were as happy as you are. Do you know why I'm not? Because I miss you. I think about you a lot." "No, you don't," Kemal said. "You don't care about me." "You're wrong. How would you like to come to Washington and live with me?" There was a long silence. "Do you do you mean that?" "You bet I do. Would you like that?" "I " He began to cry. "Would you, Kemal?" "Yes yes, ma'am." "I'll make the arrangements."

"Miss Evans?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Dana and Jeff Connors were walking in West Potomac Park. "I think I'm going to have a roommate," Dana said. "He should be here in the next few weeks." Jeff looked at her in surprise. "He?" Dana found herself pleased at his reaction. "Yes. His name is Kemal. He's twelve years old." She told him the story. "He sounds like a great kid." "He is He's been through hell, Jeff. I want to help him forget." He looked at Dana and said, "I'd like to help, too." That night they made love for the first time.

Sixteen.

There are two Washington, D. C."s. One is a city of inordinate beauty: imposing architecture, world-class museums, statues, monuments to the giants of the past: Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington... a city of verdant parks, cherry blossoms, and velvet air.

The other Washington, D. C." is a citadel of the homeless, a city with one of the highest crime rates in the nation, a labyrinth of muggings and murders.

The Monroe Arms is an elegant boutique hotel discreetly tucked away not far from the corner of ayth and K streets. It does no advertising and caters mainly to its regular clientele.

The hotel was built a number of years ago by an enterprising young real estate entrepreneur named Lara Cameron. Jeremy Robinson, the hotel's general manager, had just arrived on his evening shift and was studying the guest register with a perplexed expression on his face. He checked the names of the occupants of the elite Terrace Suites once again to make certain someone had not made a mistake. In Suite 325, a faded actress was rehearsing for a play opening at the National Theater According to a story in The Washington Post, she was hoping to make a comeback. In 425, the suite above hers, was a well-known arms dealer who visited Washington regularly. The name on the guest register was J. L. Smith, but his looks suggested one of the Middle East countries Mr. Smith was an extraordinarily generous tipper. Suite 525 was registered to William Quint, a congressman who headed the powerful drug oversight committee. Above, Suite 625 was occupied by a computer software salesman who visited Washington once a month. Registered in Suite 725 was Pat Murphy, an international lobbyist. So far, so good, Jeremy Robinson thought. The guests were all well known to him. It was Suite 825, the Imperial Suite on the top floor, that was the enigma. It was the most elegant suite in the hotel, and it was always held in reserve for the most important VIPs. It occupied the entire floor and was exquisitely decorated with valuable paintings and antiques. It had its own private elevator leading to the basement garage, so that its guests who wished to be anonymous could arrive and depart in privacy.

What puzzled Jeremy Robinson was the name on the hotel register: Eugene Gant. Was there actually a person by that name, or had someone who enjoyed reading Thomas Wolfe selected it as an alias?

Carl Gorman, the day clerk who had registered the eponymous Mr. Gant, had left on his vacation a few hours earlier, and was unreachable Robinson hated mysteries. Who was Eugene Gant and why had he been given the Imperial Suite?

In Suite 325, on the third floor, Dame Gisella Barrett was rehearsing for a play. She was a distinguished-looking woman in her late sixties, an actress who had once mesmerized audiences and critics from London's West End to Manhattan's Broadway. There were still faint traces of beauty in her face, but they were overlaid with bitterness. She had read the article in The Washington Post that said she had come to Washington to make a comeback. A comeback! Dame Barrett thought indignantly. How dare they! I've never been away. True, it had been more than twenty years since she had last appeared onstage, but that was only because a great actress needed a great part, a brilliant director, and an understanding producer. The directors today were too young to cope with the grandeur of real Theater, and the great English producers H. M. Tenant, Binkie Beaumont, C. B. Cochran were all gone Even the reasonably competent American producers, Helburn, Belasco, and Golden, were no longer around. There was no question about it: The current theater was controlled by know-nothing parvenus with no background. The old days had been so wonderful. There were playwrights back then whose pens were dipped in lightning. Dame Barrett had starred in the part of Ellie Dunn in Shaw's Heartbreak House. How the critics raved about me. Poor George. He hated to be called George. He preferred Bernard. People thought of him as acerbic and bitter, but underneath it all, he was really a romantic Irishman He used to send me red roses. I think he was too shy to go beyond that. Perhaps he was afraid I would reject him. She was about to make her return in one of the most powerful roles ever written Lady Macbeth It was the perfect choice for her. Dame Barrett placed a chair in front of a blank wall, so that she would not be distracted by the view outside. She sat down, took a deep breath, and began to get into the character Shakespeare had created. "Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts! Unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep the peace between The effect and it!"