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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."
