The Pelican Brief

“I don’t know.”

“Now you’re playing games, Gavin. How can I trust you if you won’t talk to me?”

“Okay. I think it’s safe to say your little brief hit someone in the gut. You guessed right, the wrong people learned of the brief, and now Thomas is dead. And they’ll kill you the instant they find you.”

“We know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen, don’t we, Gavin?”

“I think we do.”

“Then why doesn’t the FBI do something?”

“We may be in the midst of a cover-up.”

“Bless you for saying that. Bless you.”

“I could lose my job.”

“Who would I tell, Gavin? Who’s covering up what?”

“I’m not sure. We were very interested in the brief until the White House pressed hard, now we’ve dismissed it.”

“I can understand that. Why do they think they can kill me and it will be kept quiet?”

“I can’t answer that. Maybe they think you know more.”

“Can I tell you something? Moments after the bomb, while Thomas was in the car burning and I was semiconscious, a cop named Rupert took me to his car and put me inside. Another cop with cowboy boots and jeans started asking me questions. I was sick and in shock. They disappeared, Rupert and his cowboy, and they never returned. They were not cops, Gavin. They watched the bomb, and went to plan B when I wasn’t in the car. I didn’t know it, but I was probably a minute or two away from a bullet in the head.”

Verheek listened with his eyes closed. “What happened to them?”

“Not sure. I think they got scared when the real cops swarmed on the scene. They vanished. I was in their car, Gavin. They had me.”

“You have to come in, Darby. Listen to me.”

“Do you remember our phone chat Thursday morning when I suddenly saw a face that looked familiar and I described it to you?”

“Of course.”

“That face was at the memorial service yesterday, along with some friends.”

“Where were you?”

“Watching. He walked in a few minutes late, stayed ten minutes, then sneaked out and met with Stump.”

“Stump?”

“Yes, he’s one of the gang. Stump, Rupert, Cowboy, and the Thin Man. Great characters. I’m sure there are others, but I haven’t met them yet.”

“The next meeting will be the last, Darby. You have about forty-eight hours to live.”

“We’ll see. How long will you be in town?”

“A few days. I’d planned to stay until I found you.”

“Here I am. I may call you tomorrow.”

Verheek breathed deeply. “Okay, Darby. Whatever you say. Just be careful.”

She hung up. He threw the phone across the room, and cursed it.

Two blocks away and fifteen floors up, Khamel stared at the television and mumbled rapidly to himself. It was a movie about people in a big city. They spoke English, his third language, and he repeated every word in his best generic American tongue. He did this for hours. He had absorbed the language while hiding in Belfast, and in the past twenty years had watched thousands of American movies. His favorite was Three Days of the Condor. He watched it four times before he figured out who was killing whom and why. He could have killed Redford.

He repeated every word out loud. He had been told his English could pass for that of an American, but one slip, one tiny mistake, and she would be gone.

The Volvo was parked in a lot a block and a half from its owner, who paid one hundred dollars a month for the space and for what he thought was security. They eased through the gate that was supposed to be locked.

It was a 1986 GL without a security system, and within seconds the driver’s door was open. One sat on the trunk and lit a cigarette. It was almost 4 A.M. Sunday.

The other one opened a small tool case he kept in his pocket, and went to work on the yuppie car phone that Grantham had been embarrassed to buy. The dome light was enough, and he worked quickly. Easy work. With the receiver open, he installed a tiny transmitter and glued it in place. A minute later, he eased out of the car and squatted at the rear bumper. The one with the cigarette handed him a small black cube, which he stuck under the car to a grille and behind the gas tank. It was a magnetized transmitter, and it would send signals for six days before it died and needed replacing.

They were gone in less than seven minutes. Monday, as soon as he was spotted entering the Post building on Fifteenth, they would enter his apartment and fix his phones.

Her second night in the bed and breakfast was better than the first. She slept until mid-morning. Maybe she was used to it now. She stared at the curtains over the tiny window and determined that there had been no nightmares, no movements in the dark with guns and knives emerging and attacking. It was a thick, heavy sleep, and she studied the curtains for a long time while the brain woke up.

She tried to be disciplined about her thinking. This was her fourth day as the Pelican, and to see number five she would have to think like a fastidious killer. It was day number four of the rest of her life. She was supposed to be dead.

But after the eyes opened, and she realized she was indeed alive and safe, and the door wasn’t squeaking and the floor wasn’t cracking, and there was no gunman lurking in the closet, her first thought was always of Thomas. The shock of his death was fading, and she found it easier to put aside the sound of the explosion and the roar of the fire. She knew he had been blown to pieces and killed instantly. She knew he did not suffer.

So she thought of other things, like the feel of him next to her, and his whispering and snickering when they were in bed and the sex was over and he wanted to cuddle. He was a cuddler, and he wanted to play and kiss and caress after the love-making. And giggle. He loved her madly, had fallen hard, and for the first time in his life could be silly with a woman. Many times in the middle of his lectures, she had thought of his cooing and snickering, and bit her lip to keep from smiling.

She loved him too. And it hurt so badly. She wanted to stay in bed and cry for a week. The day after her father’s funeral, a psychiatrist had explained that the soul needs a brief, very intense period of grieving, then it moves to the next phase. But it must have the pain—it must suffer without restraint before it can properly move on. She took his advice, and grieved without courage for two weeks, then got tired of it and moved to the next stage. It worked.

But it wasn’t working with Thomas. She couldn’t scream and throw things the way she wanted. Rupert and Thin Man and the rest of the boys were denying her a healthy mourning.

After a few minutes of Thomas, she thought of them next. Where would they be today? Where could she go without being seen? After two nights in this place, should she find another room? Yes, she would do that. After dark. She would call and reserve a room at another tiny guest house. Where were they staying? Were they patrolling the streets hoping to simply bump into her? Did they know where she was at this moment? No. She would be dead. Did they know she was now a blonde?

The hair got her out of bed. She walked to the mirror over the desk, and looked at herself. It was even shorter now, and very white. Not a bad job. She had worked on it for three hours last night. If she lived another two days, she would cut some more and go back to black. If she lived another week, she might be bald.

A hunger pain hit, and for a second she thought about food. She was not eating, and this would have to