Gray nodded. This was no time for a smart comment. The guy looked suspicious, and she was concerned. She'd been tracked for two weeks now, from New Orleans to New York, and now maybe to Washington, and she knew more about being followed than he did.
"What're you saying, Darby?"
"Give me one good reason why this man, who obviously is not a street bum, would be doing this."
The man looked at his watch, and walked slowly along the sidewalk until he was gone. Darby looked at her watch.
"It's exactly one," she said. "Let's check every fifteen minutes, okay?"
"Okay. I doubt if it's anything," he said, trying to be comforting. It didn't work. She sat at the table, and looked at the notes.
He watched her and slowly returned to the computer.
Gray typed furiously for fifteen minutes, then walked back to the window. Darby watched him carefully. "I don't see him," he said.
He did see him at one-thirty. "Darby," he said, pointing to the spot where she'd first seen him. She looked out the window, and slowly focused on the man with the black cap. Now he had a dark green windbreaker, and he was not facing the Post. He watched his boots, and every ten seconds or so glanced at the front entrance. This made him all the more suspicious, but he was partially hidden behind a delivery truck. The Styrofoam cup was gone. He lit a cigarette. He glanced at the Post, then watched the sidewalk in front of it.
"Why do I have this knot in my stomach?" Darby said.
"How could they follow you? It's impossible."
"They knew I was in New York. That seemed impossible at the time."
"Maybe they're following me. I've been told they were watching. That's what the guy's doing. Why should he know you're here? The dude's following me."
"Maybe," she said slowly.
"Have you seen him before?"
"They don't introduce themselves."
"Look. We've got thirty minutes, and they're back in here with knives to carve up our story. Let's finish it, then we can watch dude out there."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
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.