The Pelican Brief (42 page)

“What’s he wearing?”

“Denim from head to toe, and a black cap. Looks like boots. What about it?”

“I saw him an hour ago standing over there by the hotel. He was sort of hidden by that telephone van, but I know it was him. Now he’s over there.”

“So?”

“So for the past hour, at least, he’s been moving around doing nothing but watching this building.”

Gray nodded. This was no time for a smart comment. The guy looked suspicious, and she was concerned. She’d been tracked for two weeks now, from New Orleans to New York, and now maybe to Washington, and she knew more about being followed than he did.

“What’re you saying, Darby?”

“Give me one good reason why this man, who obviously is not a street bum, would be doing this.”

The man looked at his watch, and walked slowly along the sidewalk until he was gone. Darby looked at her watch.

“It’s exactly one,” she said. “Let’s check every fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Okay. I doubt if it’s anything,” he said, trying to
be comforting. It didn’t work. She sat at the table, and looked at the notes.

He watched her and slowly returned to the computer.

Gray typed furiously for fifteen minutes, then walked back to the window. Darby watched him carefully. “I don’t see him,” he said.

He did see him at one-thirty. “Darby,” he said, pointing to the spot where she’d first seen him. She looked out the window, and slowly focused on the man with the black cap. Now he had a dark green windbreaker, and he was not facing the
Post
. He watched his boots, and every ten seconds or so glanced at the front entrance. This made him all the more suspicious, but he was partially hidden behind a delivery truck. The Styrofoam cup was gone. He lit a cigarette. He glanced at the
Post
, then watched the sidewalk in front of it.

“Why do I have this knot in my stomach?” Darby said.

“How could they follow you? It’s impossible.”

“They knew I was in New York. That seemed impossible at the time.”

“Maybe they’re following me. I’ve been told they were watching. That’s what the guy’s doing. Why should he know you’re here? The dude’s following me.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly.

“Have you seen him before?”

“They don’t introduce themselves.”

“Look. We’ve got thirty minutes, and they’re back in here with knives to carve up our story. Let’s finish it, then we can watch dude out there.”

They returned to their work. At one forty-five, she stood in the window again, and the man was gone. The printer was rattling the first draft, and she began proofing.

________

The editors read with their pencils. Litsky the lawyer read for sheer pleasure. He seemed to enjoy it more than the others.

It was a long story, and Feldman was busy cutting like a surgeon. Smith Keen scribbled in the margins. Krauthammer liked what he saw.

They read slowly in silence. Gray proofed it again. Darby was at the window. Dude was back again, now wearing a navy blazer with the jeans. It was cloudy and in the sixties, and he was sipping from the cup. He huddled over it to stay warm. He took a drink, looked at the
Post
, looked at the street, and back to the cup. He was in front of a different building, and at exactly two-fifteen he began looking north along Fifteenth.

A car stopped on his side of the street. The rear door opened, and there he was. The car sped away, and he looked around. Limping ever so slightly, Stump walked casually to the man with the black cap. They spoke for seconds, then Stump walked south to the intersection of Fifteenth and L. Dude stayed in place.

She glanced around the room. They were immersed in the story. Stump was out of sight, so she couldn’t show him to Gray, who was reading and smiling. No, they were not watching the reporter. They were waiting on the girl.

And they had to be desperate. They were standing on the street hoping somehow a miracle would happen and the girl would emerge from the building, and they could take her out. They were scared. She was inside spilling her guts and waving copies of that damned brief. Tomorrow morning the game would be over. Somehow they had to stop her. They had their orders.

She was in a room full of men, and suddenly she was not safe.

Feldman finished last. He slid his copy to Gray. “Minor stuff. Should take about an hour. Let’s talk phone calls.”

“Just three, I think,” Gray said. “The White House, FBI, and White and Blazevich.”

“You only named Sims Wakefield at the firm. Why?” asked Krauthammer.

“Morgan fingered him the most.”

“But the memo is from Velmano. I think he should be named.”

“I agree,” said Smith Keen.

“Me too,” said DeBasio.

“I wrote his name in,” Feldman said. “We’ll get Einstein later. Wait until four-thirty or five before you call the White House and White and Blazevich. If you do it sooner, they may go nuts and run to court.”

“I agree,” said Litsky the lawyer. “They can’t stop it, but they can try. I’d wait until five before I called them.”

“Okay,” Gray said. “I’ll have it reworked by three-thirty. Then I’ll call the FBI for their comment. Then the White House, then White and Blazevich.”

Feldman was almost out the door. “We’ll meet again here at three-thirty. Stay close to your phones.”

When the room was empty again, Darby locked the door and pointed to the window. “You’ve heard me mention Stump?”

“Don’t tell me.”

They scanned the street below.

“Afraid so. He met with our little friend, then disappeared. I know it was him.”

“I guess I’m off the hook.”

“I guess you are. I really want to get out of here.”

“We’ll think of something. I’ll alert our security. You want me to tell Feldman?”

“No. Not yet.”

“I know some cops.”

“Great. And they can just walk up and beat the hell out of him.”

“These cops’ll do it.”

“They can’t bother these people. What are they doing wrong?”

“Just planning murder.”

“How safe are we in this building?”

Gray thought a moment. “Let me tell Feldman. We’ll get two security guards posted by this door.”

“Okay.”

________

Feldman approved the second draft at three-thirty, and Gray was given the green light to call the FBI. Four phones were brought to the conference room, and the recorder was plugged in. Feldman, Smith Keen, and Krauthammer listened on extensions. Gray called Phil Norvell, a good acquaintance and
sometime source, if there was such a thing within the Bureau. Norvell answered his own line.

“Phil, Gray Grantham with the
Post.
”

“I think I know who you’re with, Gray.”

“I’ve got the recorder on.”

“Must be serious. What’s up?”

“We’re running a story in the morning detailing a conspiracy in the assassinations of Rosenberg and Jensen. We’re naming Victor Mattiece, an oil speculator, and two of his lawyers here in town. We also mention Verheek, not in the conspiracy, of course. We believe the FBI knew about Mattiece early on, but refused to investigate at the urging of the White House. We wanted to give you guys a chance to comment.”

There was no response on the other end.

“Phil, are you there?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Any comment?”

“I’m sure we will have a comment, but I’ll have to call you back.”

“We’re going to press soon, so you need to hurry.”

“Well, Gray, this is a shot in the ass. Could you hold it a day?”

“No way.”

Norvell paused. “Okay. Let me see Mr. Voyles, and I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you, Gray. This is wonderful. Mr. Voyles will be thrilled.”

“We’re waiting.” Gray punched a button and cleared the line. Keen turned off the recorder.

They waited eight minutes, and Voyles himself
was on the line. He insisted on speaking to Jackson Feldman. The recorder was back on.

“Mr. Voyles?” Feldman said warmly. The two had met many times, so the “mister” was unnecessary.

“Call me Denton, dammit. Look, Jackson, what’s your boy got? This is crazy. You guys are jumping off a cliff. We’ve investigated Mattiece, still investigating him, and it’s too early to move on him. Now, what’s your boy got?”

“Does the name Darby Shaw mean anything?” Feldman grinned at her when he asked the question. She was standing against the wall.

Voyles was slow to respond. “Yes,” he said simply.

“My boy has the pelican brief, Denton, and I’m sitting here looking at Darby Shaw.”

“I was afraid she was dead.”

“No. She’s very much alive. She and Gray Grantham have confirmed from another source the facts set forth in the brief. It’s a large story, Denton.”

Voyles sighed deeply, and threw in the towel. “We are pursuing Mattiece as a suspect,” he said.

“The recorder’s on, Denton, be careful.”

“Well, we need to talk. I mean, man to man. I may have some deep background for you.”

“You’re welcome to come here.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The editors were terribly amused at the idea of the great F. Denton Voyles hopping in his limo and rushing to the
Post
. They had watched him for years, and knew he was a master at cutting his losses. He hated the press, and this willingness to talk on their turf and under their gun meant only one thing—he would point
the finger at someone else. And the likely target was the White House.

Darby had no desire to meet the man. Her thoughts were on escape. She could point at the man in the black cap, but he’d been gone for thirty minutes now. And what could the FBI do? They had to catch him first, then what? Charge him with loitering and planning an ambush? Torture him and make him tell all? They probably wouldn’t believe her.

She had no desire to deal with the FBI. She didn’t want their protection. She was about to take a trip, and no one would know where to. Maybe Gray. Maybe not.

He punched the number for the White House, and they picked up the extensions. Keen turned on the recorder.

“Fletcher Coal, please. This is Gray Grantham with the
Washington Post
, and it’s very urgent.”

He waited. “Why Coal?” Keen asked.

“Everything has to be cleared through him,” Gray said with his hand over the receiver.

“Says who?”

“Says a source.”

The secretary returned with the message that Mr. Coal was on his way. Please hold. Gray was smiling. The adrenaline was pumping.

Finally, “Fletcher Coal.”

“Yes, Mr. Coal. Gray Grantham at the
Post
. I am recording the conversation. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true you have issued a directive to all White House personnel, except the President, to the effect
that all communications with the press must first be cleared by you?”

“Absolutely untrue. The press secretary handles those matters.”

“I see. We’re running a story in the morning which, in summary, verifies the facts set forth in the pelican brief. Are you familiar with the pelican brief?”

Slowly, “I am.”

“We have confirmed that Mr. Mattiece contributed in excess of four million dollars to the President’s campaign three years ago.”

“Four million, two hundred thousand, all through legal channels.”

“We also believe the White House intervened and attempted to obstruct the FBI investigation into Mr. Mattiece, and we wanted your comment, if any.”

“Is this something you believe, or is it something you intend to print?”

“We are trying to confirm it now.”

“And who do you think will confirm it for you?”

“We have sources, Mr. Coal.”

“Indeed you do. The White House emphatically denies any involvement with this investigation. The President asked to be apprised as to the status of the entire investigation after the tragic deaths of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, but there has been no direct or indirect involvement from the White House into any aspect of the investigation. You have received some bad information.”

“Does the President consider Victor Mattiece a friend?”

“No. They met on one occasion, and as I stated,
Mr. Mattiece was a significant contributor, but he is not a friend of the President.”

“He was the largest contributor, though, wasn’t he?”

“I cannot confirm that.”

“Any other comment?”

“No. I’m sure the press secretary will address this in the morning.”

They hung up and Keen turned off the recorder. Feldman was on his feet rubbing his hands together. “I’d give a year’s pay to be in the White House right now,” he said.

“He’s cool, isn’t he?” Gray said with admiration.

“Yeah, but his cool ass is now sitting deep in boiling water.”

42
________

FOR A MAN accustomed to throwing his weight around and watching everyone flinch, it was difficult to come humbly forward with hat in hand and ask for a break. He swaggered as humbly as he could through the newsroom with K. O. Lewis and two agents in tow. He wore his customary wrinkled trench coat with the belt tied tightly around the center of his short and dumpy physique. He was not striking, but his manner and walk left no doubt he was a man accustomed to getting his way. All dressed in dark coats, they resembled a Mafia don with bodyguards. The busy newsroom grew silent as they walked quickly through it. Though not striking, F. Denton Voyles was a presence, humble or not.

A small, tense group of editors huddled in the short hallway outside Feldman’s office. Howard Krauthammer knew Voyles, and met him as he approached. They shook hands and whispered. Feldman was on the phone to Mr. Ludwig, the publisher, who was in China. Smith Keen joined the conversation and shook hands with Voyles and
Lewis. The two agents kept to themselves a few feet away.

Feldman opened his door, looked toward the newsroom, and saw Denton Voyles. He motioned for him to come in. K. O. Lewis followed. They exchanged routine pleasantries until Smith Keen closed the door and they took a seat.

“I take it you have solid confirmation of the pelican brief,” Voyles said.

“We do,” Feldman answered. “Why don’t you and Mr. Lewis read a draft of the story? I think it will explain things. We’re going to press in about an hour, and the reporter, Mr. Grantham, wants you to have the opportunity to comment.”