'How do you mean?'
'When somebody tells a guy like Dan what he has to do, mostly they do it. They do it because they have to, because that's what the rules are—and you know something? He hates it, almost as much as you do. My job, Barbara, is to help people like Dan, because I can get the bastards off their backs, too.'
'I can't…I mean, I just can't—'
Libby reached out and stopped her with a gentle touch on the hand.
'I'm not going to ask you to give me anything on the record, Barbara. That could mess up the criminal case, and you know I want this one to be handled through the system just as much as you do. But can you talk to me off the record?'
'Yes!…I think so.'
'Do you mind if I record this?' The reporter pulled a small recorder from her purse.
'Who will hear it?'
'The only other person will be my AME-assistant managing editor. We do that to make sure that we have good sources, except for that, it's like talking to your lawyer or doctor or minister. Those are the rules, and we never break them.'
Intellectually speaking, Barbara knew that, but here and now in her apartment, the ethical rules of journalism seemed a thin reed. Libby Holtzman could see it in her eyes.
'If you want, I can just leave, or we can talk without the recorder, but'—a disarming smile—'I hate taking shorthand. You make mistakes that way. If you want to think about it a little while, that's okay, too. You've had enough pressure. I know that. I know what this can be like.'
'That's what Dan says, but he doesn't! He doesn't really.'
Libby Holtzman looked straight into her eyes. She wondered if Murray had seen the same pain and felt it as deeply as she did now. Probably so, she thought, quite honestly, probably in a slightly different way, because he was a man, but he was a good cop, and he was probably just as mad about the way the case was going as she now felt.
'Barbara, if you just want to talk about…things, that's okay, too. Sometimes we just need a friend to talk to. I don't have to be a reporter all the time.'
'Do you know about Lisa?'
'Her death was never really explained, was it?'
'We were best friends, we shared everything…and then when he—'
'Are you sure Kealty was involved with that?'
'I'm the one who found the letter, Libby.'
'What can you tell me about that?' Holtzman asked, unable to restrain her journalistic focus now.
'I can do better than tell you.' Linders rose and disappeared for a moment. She returned with the photocopies and handed them over.
It only took two minutes to read the letter once and then once again. Date, place, method. A message from beyond the grave, Libby thought. What was more dangerous than ink on paper?
'For what's on here, and what you know, he could go to prison, Barbara.'
'That's what Dan says. He smiles when he says it. He wants it to happen.'
'Do you?' Holtzman asked.
'Yes!'
'Then let me help.'
17—Strike One
It's called the miracle of modern communications only because nothing modern is supposed to be a curse. In fact, those on the receiving end of such information were often appalled by what they got.
It had been a smooth flight, even by the standards of Air Force One, on which many passengers—mainly the younger and more foolish White House staffers—often refused to buckle their seat belts as a show of…something, Ryan thought. The Air Force flight crew was as good as any, he knew, but it hadn't prevented one incident on final at Andrews, where a thunderbolt had blown the nosecone off the aircraft carrying the Secretary of Defense and his wife, rather to everyone's discomfiture. And so he always kept his belt on, albeit loosely, just as the flight crew did.
'Dr. Ryan?' The whisper was accompanied by a shake of his shoulders.
'What is it, Sarge?' There was no sense in grumbling at an innocent NCO.
'Mr. van Damm needs you upstairs, sir.'
Jack nodded and moved his seat to the upright position. The sergeant handed him a coffee mug on the way. A clock told him it was nine in the morning, but it didn't say where it was nine in the morning, and Ryan could not at the moment remember what zone the clock was set on. It was all theoretical anyway.
The upper deck of the VC-25B contrasted sharply with the lower deck. Instead of plush appointments, the compartment here was lined with military-style electronics gear whose individual boxes had chromed bars for easy removal and replacement. A sizable team of communications specialists was always at work, tapped into every source of information one might imagine: digital radio, TV, and fax, every single channel encrypted. Arnie van Damm stood in the middle of the area, and handed something over. It turned out to be a facsimile copy of the Washington Post's late edition, about to hit the street, four thousand miles and six hours away.
VICE PRESIDENT IMPLICATED IN SUICIDE, the four-column headline announced. FIVE WOMEN CHARGE EDWARD KEALTY WITH SEXUAL ASSAULT.
'You woke me up for this?' Ryan asked. It was nowhere near his area of responsibility, was it?
'You're named in the story,' Arnie told him.
'What?' Jack scanned the piece. ' 'National Security Advisor Ryan is one of those briefed in on the affair.' Okay, I guess that's true, isn't it?'
'Keep going.'
' 'The White House told the FBI four weeks ago not to present the case to the Judiciary Committee.' That's not true.'
'This one's a beautiful combination of what is and what isn't.' The Chief of Staff was in an even fouler mood than Ryan.
'Who leaked?'
'I don't know, but Libby Holtzman ran this piece, and her husband is sleeping aft. He likes you. Get him and talk to him.'
'Wait a minute, this is something that a little time and truth will settle out, Arnie. The President hasn't done anything wrong that I know about.'
'His political enemies can call the delay obstruction of justice.'
'Come on.' Jack shook his head in disbelief. 'No way that would stand up to examination.'
'It doesn't have to, damn it. We're talking politics, remember, not facts, and we have elections coming up. Talk to Bob Holtzman. Now,' van Damm ordered. He didn't do it often with Ryan, but he did have the authority.
'Tell the Boss yet?' Jack asked, folding up his copy.
'We'll let him sleep for a while. Send Tish up on the way, will you?'
'Okay.' Ryan headed back down and shook Tish Brown awake, pointed upstairs, then headed aft to a flight attendant—crew member, he corrected himself. 'Get Bob Holtzman up here, will you?' Through an open port he could see that it was light outside. Maybe it was nine o'clock where they were going? Yeah, they were scheduled to arrive in Moscow at two in the afternoon, local time. The head cook was sitting in his galley, reading a copy of Time. Ryan went in and got his own coffee refill.
'Can't sleep, Dr. Ryan?'
'Not anymore. Duty calls.'
'I have rolls baking, if you want.'
