The Pelican Brief

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 ru

“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 co

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.”