jg.thepelicanbrief-第30章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ll　the　windows　down。　He　did　his　best　work　half…stoned。　When　you　stare　at　motels　for　a　living；　you　need　to　be　stoned。　
　　
　　There　was　a　nice　breeze　ing　in　from　the　passenger's　side；　blowing　the　smell　onto　Pennsylvania。　He　was　parked　illegally；　smoking　dope；　and　not　really　concerned。　He　had　less　than　an　ounce　on　him；　and　his　probation　officer　smoked　it　too；　so　what　the　hell。　
　　
　　The　phone　booth　was　a　block　and　a　half　ahead；　on　the　sidewalk　but　away　from　the　street。　With　his　telephoto　lens；　he　could　almost　read　the　phone　book　hanging　from　the　rack。　Piece　of　cake。　A　large　woman　was　inside；　filling　the　booth　and　talking　with　her　hands。　Croft　took　a　drag　and　watched　the　mirror　for　cops。　This　was　a　tow…away　zone。　Traffic　was　heavy　on　Pennsylvania。　
　　
　　At　twenty　after　twelve；　the　woman　fought　her　way　out　of　the　booth；　and　from　nowhere　a　young　man　with　a　nice　suit　appeared　and　closed　the　door。　Croft　got　his　Nikon　and　rested　the　lens　on　the　steering　wheel。　It　was　cool　and　sunny；　and　the　sidewalk　bustled　with　lunch　traffic。　The　shoulders　and　heads　moved　quickly　by。　A　gap。　Click。　A　gap。　Click。　The　subject　was　punching　numbers　and　glancing　around。　This　was　their　man。　
　　
　　He　talked　for　thirty　seconds；　and　the　car　phone　rang　three　times　and　stopped。　It　was　the　signal　from　Grantham　at　the　Post。　This　was　their　man；　and　he　was　talking。　Croft　fired　away。　Get　all　you　can　get；　Grantham　had　said。　A　gap。　Click。　Click。　Heads　and　shoulders。　A　gap。　Click。　Click。　His　eyes　darted　around　as　he　talked；　but　he　kept　his　back　to　the　street。　Full　face。　Click。　Croft　burned　a　roll　of　thirty…six　in　two　minutes；　then　grabbed　another　Nikon。　He　screwed　on　the　lens；　and　waited　for　a　mob　to　pass。　
　　
　　He　took　the　last　drag　and　thumped　it　into　the　street。　This　was　so　easy。　Oh　sure；　it　took　talent　to　capture　the　image　in　a　studio；　but　this　street　work　was　much　more　fun。　There　was　something　felonious　about　stealing　a　face　with　a　hidden　camera。　
　　
　　The　subject　was　a　man　of　few　words。　He　hung　up；　looked　around；　opened　the　door；　looked　around；　and　started　toward　Croft。　Click；　click；　click。　Full　face；　full　figure；　walking　faster；　getting　closer；　beautiful；　beautiful。　Croft　worked　feverishly；　then　at　the　last　moment　laid　the　Nikon　in　the　seat　and　looked　at　Pennsylvania　as　their　man　walked　by　and　disappeared　in　a　group　of　secretaries。　
　　
　　What　a　fool。　When　you're　on　the　run；　never　use　the　same　pay　phone　twice。　
　　
　　*　　*　　*
　　
　　GARCIA　WAS　SHADOW　BOXING。　He　had　a　wife　and　child；　he　said；　and　he　was　scared。　There　was　a　career　ahead　with　plenty　of　money；　and　if　he　paid　his　dues　and　kept　his　mouth　shut　he　would　be　a　wealthy　man。　But　he　wanted　to　talk。　He　rambled　on　about　how　he　wanted　to　talk；　had　something　to　say　and　all；　but　just　couldn't　make　the　decision。　He　didn't　trust　anyone。　
　　
　　Grantham　didn't　push。　He　let　him　ramble　long　enough　for　Croft　to　do　his　number。　Garcia　would　eventually　spill　his　guts。　He　wanted　to　so　badly。　He　had　called　three　times　now；　and　was　growing　fortable　with　his　new　friend　Grantham；　who'd　played　this　game　many　times　and　knew　how　it　worked。　The　first　step　was　to　relax　and　build　trust；　to　treat　them　with　warmth　and　respect；　to　talk　about　right　and　wrong　and　moralities。　Then　they　would　talk。　
　　
　　The　pictures　were　beautiful。　Croft　was　not　his　first　choice。　He　was　usually　so　bombed　you　could　tell　it　in　the　photography。　But　Croft　was　sleazy　and　discreet；　with　a　working　knowledge　of　journalism；　and　he　happened　to　be　available　on　short　notice。　He　had　picked　twelve　and　blown　them　to　five　by　seven；　and　they　were　outstanding。　Right　profile。　Left　profile。　Full　face　into　the　phone。　Full　face　looking　at　the　camera。　Full　figure　less　than　twenty　feet　away。　Piece　of　cake；　Croft　said。　
　　
　　Garcia　was　under　thirty；　a　very　nice…looking；　clean…cut　lawyer。　Dark；　short　hair。　Dark　eyes。　Maybe　Hispanic；　but　the　skin　was　not　dark。　The　clothes　were　expensive。　Navy　suit；　probably　wool。　No　stripes　or　patterns。　Basic　white　spread　collar　with　a　silk　tie。　Basic　black　or　burgundy　wing　tips　with　a　sparkling　shine。　The　absence　of　a　briefcase　was　puzzling。　But　then；　it　was　lunch；　and　he　probably　ran　from　the　office　to　make　the　call；　then　back　to　the　office。　The　Justice　Department　was　a　block　away。　
　　
　　Grantham　studied　the　pictures　and　kept　an　eye　on　the　door。　Sarge　was　never　late。　It　was　dark　and　the　club　was　filling　up。　Grantham's　was　the　only　white　face　within　three　blocks。　
　　
　　Of　the　tens　of　thousands　of　government　lawyers　in　D。C。；　he　had　seen　a　few　who　knew　how　to　dress；　but　not　many。　Especially　the　younger　ones。　They　started　at　forty　a　year　and　clothes　were　not　important。　Clothes　were　important　to　Garcia；　and　he　was　too　young　and　well　dressed　to　be　a　government　lawyer。　
　　
　　So　he　was　a　private　one；　in　a　firm　for　about　three　or　four　years　now　and　hitting　somewhere　around　eighty　grand。　Great。　That　narrowed　it　down　to　fifty　thousand　lawyers　and　no　doubt　expanding　by　the　moment。　
　　
　　The　door　opened　and　a　cop　walked　in。　Through　the　smoke　and　haze；　he　could　tell　it　was　Cleve。　This　was　a　respectable　joint　with　no　dice　or　whores；　so　the　presence　of　a　cop　was　not　alarming。　He　sat　in　the　booth　across　from　Grantham。
　　
　　〃Did　you　pick　this　place？〃　Grantham　asked。
　　
　　〃Yeah。　You　like　it？〃
　　
　　〃Let's　put　it　like　this。　We're　trying　to　be　inconspicuous；　right？　I'm　here　picking　up　secrets　from　a　White　House　employee。　Pretty　heavy　stuff。　Now　tell　me；　Cleve；　do　I　look　inconspicuous　sitting　here　in　all　my　whiteness？〃
　　
　　〃I　hate　to　tell　you　this；　Grantham；　but　you're　not　nearly　as　famous　as　you　think。　You　see　those　dudes　at　the　bar。〃　They　looked　at　the　bar　lined　with　construction　workers。　〃I'd　give　you　my　paycheck　if　any　dude　there　has　ever　read　the　Washington　Post；　heard　of　Gray　Grantham；　or　gives　a　damn　what　happens　at　the　White　House。〃
　　
　　〃Okay；　okay。　Where's　Sarge？〃
　　
　　〃Sarge　is　not　feeling　well。　He　gave　me　a　message　for　you。〃　
　　
　　〃Wouldn't　work。　He　could　use　Sarge　as　an　unnamed　source；　but　not　Sarge's　son　or　anyone　else　Sarge　talked　to。What's　wrong　with　him？〃
　　
　　〃Old　age。　He　didn't　want　to　talk　tonight；　but　it's　urgent；　he　says。〃　
　　
　　Grantham　listened　and　waited。
　　
　　〃I've　got　an　envelope　in　my　car；　all　licked　and　sealed　real　tight。　Sarge　got　real　blunt　when　he　gave　it　to　me；　and　told　me　not　to　open　it。　Just　take　it　to　Mr。　Grantham。　I　think　it's　important。〃
　　
　　〃Let's　go。〃　
　　
　　They　made　their　way　through　the　crowd　to　the　door。　The　patrol　car　was　parked　illegally　at　the　curb。　Cleve　opened　the　passenger　door；　and　pulled　the　envelope　from　the　glove　box。　〃He　got　this　in　the　West　Wing。〃　
　　
　　Grantham　stuffed　it　in　his　pocket。　Sarge　was　not　one　to　lift　things；　and　in　the　course　of　their　relationship　he　had　never　produced　a　document。
　　
　　〃Thanks；　Cleve。〃
　　
　　〃He　wouldn't　tell　me　what　it　is；　told　me　I'll　just　have　to　wait　and　read　it　in　the　paper。〃
　　
　　〃Tell　Sarge　I　love　him。〃
　　
　　〃I'm　sure　that'll　give　him　a　thrill。〃　
　　
　　The　patrol　car　drove　away；　and　Grantham　hurried　to　his　Volvo；　now　filled　with　the　stench　of　burnt　grass。　He　locked　the　door；　turned　on　the　dome　light；　and　ripped　open　the　envelope。　It　was　clearly　an　internal　White　House　memo；　and　it　was　about　an　assassin　named　Khamel。　
　　
　　*　　*　　*
　　
　　HE　WAS　FLYING　across　town。　Out　of　Brightwood；　onto　Sixteenth　and　south　toward　central　Washington。　It　was　almost　seven…thirty；　and　if　he　could　put　it　together　in　an　hour；　it　would　make　the　Late　City　edition；　the　largest　of　half　a　dozen　editions　that　began　rolling　off　the　presses　at　ten…thirty。　Thank　god　for　the　little　yuppie　car　phone　he　had　been　embarrassed　to　buy。　He　called　Smith　Keen；　the　assistant　managing　editor/investigations；　who　was　still　in　the　newsroom　on　the　fifth　floor。　He　called　a　friend　at　the　foreign　desk；　and　asked　him　to　pull　everything　on　Khamel。　
　　
　　He　was　suspicious　of　the　memo。　The　words　were　too　sensitive　to　put　on　paper；　then　sling　around　the　office　like　the　latest　policy　on　coffee　or　bottled　water　or　vacations。　Someone；　probably　Fletcher　Coal；　wanted　the　world　to　know　that　Khamel　had　emerged　as　a　suspect；　and　that　he　was　a