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."

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."

"I appreciate that."

Feldman picked up a copy of the draft and handed it to Voyles, who took it gingerly. Lewis leaned over, and they immediately started reading. "We'll step outside," Feldman said. "Take your time." He and Keen left the office, and closed the door. The agents moved closer.

Feldman and Keen walked across the newsroom to the conference door. Two large security guards stood in the hall. Gray and Darby were alone inside when they entered.

"You need to call White and Blazevich," Feldman said.

"Waiting on you."

They picked up the extensions. Krauthammer was gone for the moment, and Keen handed his phone to Darby. Gray punched the numbers.

"Marty Velmano, please," Gray said. "Yes, this is Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and I need to speak to him. It's very urgent."

"One moment, please," the secretary said.

A moment passed, and another secretary was on the phone. "Mr. Velmano's office."

Gray identified himself again, and asked for her boss.

"He's in a meeting," she said.

"So am I," Gray said. "Go to the meeting, tell him who I am, and tell him his picture will be on the front page of the Post at midnight tonight."

"Well, yes, sir."

Within seconds, Velmano said, "Yes, what's going on?"

Gray identified himself for the third time, and explained about the recorder.

"I understand," Velmano snapped.

"We're running a story in the morning about your client, Victor Mattiece, and his involvement in the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen."

"Great! We'll sue your ass for the next twenty years. You're out in left field, buddy. We'll own the Post."

"Yes, sir. Remember, I'm recording this."

"Record all you want! You'll be named as a defendant. This will be great! Victor Mattiece will own the Washington Post! This is fabulous!"

Gray shook his head in disbelief at Darby. The editors smiled at the floor. This was about to be very funny.

"Yes, sir. Have you heard of the pelican brief? We have a copy."

Dead silence. Then a distant grunt, like the last gasp of a dying dog. Then more silence.

"Mr. Velmano. Are you there?"

"Yes."

We also have a copy of a memo you sent to Sims Wakefield, dated September 28, in which you suggest your client's position will be greatly improved if Rosenberg and Jensen are removed from the Court. We have a source that tells us this idea was researched by one called Einstein, who sits in a library on the sixth floor, I believe."

Silence.

Gray continued. "We have the story ready to run, but I wanted to give you the chance to comment. Would you care to comment, Mr. Velmano?"

"I have a headache."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Will you run the memo word for word?"

"Yes."

"Will you run my picture?"

"Yes. It's an old one from a Senate hearing."

"You son of a bitch."

"Thank you. Anything else?"

"I notice you've waited until five o'clock. An hour earlier, and we could've run to court and stopped this damned thing."

"Yes, sir. It was planned that way."

"You son of a bitch."

"Okay."

"You don't mind ruining people, do you?" His voice trailed off, and he was almost pitiful. What a marvelous quote. Gray had mentioned the recorder twice, but Velmano was too shocked to remember it.

"No, sir. Anything else?"

"Tell Jackson Feldman the lawsuit will be filed at nine in the morning, just as soon as the courthouse opens."

"I'll do that. Do you deny you wrote the memo?"

"Of course."

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