The Pelican Brief

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 sca

“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 pla

“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 ru

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 u

“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 gri

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 pla

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.