Page 14 of The Pelican Brief

"Can this call be traced?"

"Possibly, I guess. But you're at a pay phone, right? What difference does it make?"

"I don't know. I'm just scared."

"It's okay. I swear I'm not recording and I swear I won't trace it. Now, what's on your mind?"

"Well, I think I may know who killed them."

Grantham was standing. "That's some pretty valuable knowledge."

"It could get me killed. Do you think they're following me?"

"Who? Who would be following you?"

"I don't know." The voice trailed off, as if he was looking over his shoulder.

Grantham was pacing by the bed. "Relax. Why don't you tell me your name, okay? I swear it's confidential."

"Garcia."

"That's not a real name, is it?"

"Of course not, but it's the best I can do."

"Okay, Garcia. Talk to me."

"I'm not certain, okay? But I think I stumbled across something at the office that I was not supposed to see."

"Do you have a copy of it?"

"Maybe."

"Look, Garcia. You called me, right. Do you want to talk or not?"

"I'm not sure. What will you do if I tell you something?"

"Check it out thoroughly. If we're gonna accuse someone of the assassinations of two Supreme Court Justices, believe me, the story will be handled delicately." There was a very long silence. Grantham froze by the rocker and waited. "Garcia. Are you there?"

"Yeah. Can we talk later?"

"Of course. We can talk now."

"I need to think about this. I haven't eaten or slept in a week, and I'm not thinking rationally. I might call you later."

"Okay, okay. That's fine. You can call me at work at - "

"No. I won't call you at work. Sorry I woke you." He hung up. Grantham looked at the row of numbers on his phone and punched seven digits, waited, then six more, then four more. He scribbled a number on a pad by the phone, and hung up. The pay phone was on Fifteenth Street in Pentagon City.

Gavin Verheek slept four hours and woke up drunk. When he arrived at the Hoover Building an hour later, the alcohol was fading and the pain was settling in. He cursed himself and he cursed Callahan, who no doubt would sleep until noon and wake up fresh and alive and ready for the flight to New Orleans. They had left the restaurant when it closed at midnight, then hit a few bars and joked about catching a skin flick or two, but since their favorite movie house had been bombed they couldn't. So they just drank until three or four.

He had a meeting with Director Voyles at eleven, and it was imperative to appear sober and alert. It would be impossible. He told his secretary to close the door, and explained to her that he had caught a nasty virus, maybe the flu, and he was to be left alone at his desk unless it was awfully damned important. She studied his eyes and seemed to sniff more than usual. The smell of beer does not always evaporate with sleep.

She left and closed the door behind her. He locked it. To make things equal, he called Callahan's room, but no one answered.

What a life. His best friend earned almost as much as he did, but worked thirty hours in a busy week, and had his pick of pliant young things twenty years his junior. Then he remembered their grand plans for the week in St. Thomas, and the thought of Darby strolling along the beach. He would go, even if it caused a divorce.

A wave of nausea rippled through his chest and up his esophagus, and he quickly lay still on the floor. Cheap government carpet. He breathed deeply, and the pounding started at the top of his head. The plaster ceiling was not spinning, and this was encouraging. After three minutes, it was evident he would not vomit, at least not now.

His briefcase was within reach, and he carefully slid it next to him. He found the envelope inside with the morning paper. He opened it, unfolded the brief, and held it with both hands six inches above his face.

It was thirteen letter-sized pages of computer paper, all double-spaced with wide margins. He could handle it. Notes were scribbled in the margins by hand and whole sections were marked through. The words FIRST DRAFT were handwritten with a felt pen across the top. Her name, address, and phone number were typed on the cover sheet.

He would skim it for a few minutes while he was on the floor, then hopefully he would feel like sitting at the desk and going through the motions of being an important government lawyer. He thought of Voyles, and the pounding intensified.

She wrote well, in the standard, scholarly legal fashion of long sentences filled with large words. But she was clear. She avoided the double-talk and legal lingo most students strive so desperately for. She would never make it as an attorney employed by the United States Government.

Gavin had never heard of her suspect, and was certain it was not on anyone's list. Technically, it was not a brief, but more of a story about a lawsuit in Louisiana. She told the facts succinctly, and made them interesting. Fascinating, really. He was not skimming.

The facts took four pages, then she filled the next three with brief histories of the parties. It dragged a bit here, but he kept reading. He was hooked. On page eight, the briefer whatever it was summarized the trial. On nine, it mentioned the appeal, and the final three pages laid an implausible trail to the removal of Rosenberg and Jensen from the Court. Callahan said she had already discarded this theory, and she appeared to lose steam at the end.

But it was highly readable. For a moment he had forgotten his current state of pain, and read thirteen pages of a law student's brief while lying on the floor on dirty carpet with a million things to do.

There was a soft knock at the door. He slowly sat up, gingerly stood, and walked to the door. "Yes."

It was the secretary. "I hate to bother. But the Director wants you in his office in ten minutes."

Verheek opened the door. "What?"

"Yes, sir. Ten minutes."

He rubbed his eyes and breathed rapidly. "What for?"

"I get demoted for asking those questions, sir."

"Do you have any mouthwash?"

"Well, yes, I believe so. Do you want it?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want it. Bring it to me. Do you have any gum?"

"Gum?"

"Chewing gum."

"Yes, sir. Do you want it too?"

"Just bring me the mouthwash and gum, and some aspirin if you have it." He walked to his desk and sat down, holding his head in his hands and rubbing his temples. He heard her banging drawers, and then she was before him with the goods.

"Thanks. I'm sorry I snapped." He pointed at the brief in a chair by the door. "Send that brief to Eric East, he's on the fourth floor. Write a note from me. Tell him to look it over when he has a minute."

She left with the brief.

Fletcher Coal opened the door to the Oval Office, and spoke gravely to K. O. Lewis and Eric East. The President was in Puerto Rico viewing hurricane damage, and Director Voyles now refused to meet with Coal alone. He sent his underlings.

Coal waved them to a sofa, and he sat across the coffee table. His coat was buttoned and his tie was perfect. He never relaxed. East had heard tales about his habits. He worked twenty hours a day, seven days a week, drank nothing but water, and ate most meals from a vending machine in the basement. He could read like a computer, and spent hours each day reviewing memos, reports, correspondence, and mountains of pending legislation. He had perfect recall. For a week now they had brought daily reports of their investigation to this office, and handed them to Coal, who devoured the material and memorized it for the next meeting. If they misstated something, he would terrorize them. He was hated, but it was impossible not to respect him. He was smarter than them, and he worked harder. And he knew it.

He was smug in the emptiness of the Oval Office. His boss was away performing for the cameras, but the real power had stayed behind to run the country.

K. O. Lewis placed a four-inch stack of the latest on the table.

"Anything new?" Coal asked.

"Maybe. The French authorities were routinely reviewing footage taken by the security cameras at the Paris airport, and they thought they recognized a face. They checked it against two other cameras in the concourse, different angles, then reported to Interpol. The face is disguised, but Interpol believes it is Khamel, the terrorist. I'm sure you've heard of - "

"I have."

"They've studied the footage at length, and are almost certain he exited a plane that arrived nonstop from Dulles last Wednesday, about ten hours after Jensen was found."

"The Concorde?"

"No, United. Based on the time and the locations of the cameras, they have ways of determining the gates and flights."

"And Interpol contacted the CIA?"

"Yes. They talked to Gminski around one this afternoon."

Coal's face registered nothing. "How certain are they?"

"Eighty percent. He's a master of disguise, and it would be a bit unusual for him to travel in such a manner. So there's room for doubt. We've got photos and a summary for the President's review. Frankly, I've studied the pictures, and I can't tell anything. But Interpol knows him."

"He hasn't been willingly photographed in years, has he?"

"Not that we know of. And rumor has it he goes under the knife and gets a new face every two or three years."

Coal pondered this for a second. "Okay. What if it's Khamel, and what if he was involved in the killings? What does it mean?"

"It means we'll never find him. There are at least nine countries, including Israel, actively stalking him right now. It means he was paid a bunch of money by someone to use his talents here. We've said all along the killer or killers were professionals who were gone before the bodies were cold."

"So it means little."

"You could say that."

"Fine. What else do you have?"

Lewis glanced at Eric East. "Well, we have the usual daily summary."

"They've been rather dry as of late."

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