by Alan Elsner
“For a picture like that, I might have. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like either one of us or anyone else will see it now.”
“So the story is dead.”
“You have to be joking. One source may be dead but the story is more alive than ever. Now we have a murder. That makes it even better, maybe even another Pulitzer. Watergate was small potatoes compared to this; the worst Nixon’s guys did was break into a building. Nobody got assassinated. Any reporter worth his salt would go after this.”
“Not me. I’m out. And if I were you I’d drop it too. This story won’t get you any prizes—but it could well get you killed.”
“Such melodrama!”
“A man was killed today. I was there.”
“I understand you’re all shook-up. Things will look different tomorrow when you wake up and realize a story like this comes along once in a lifetime.”
“Todd, I’m begging you, let it go. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. These people are ruthless. Is this really worth dying for?”
“They wouldn’t dare touch me. I’m too well known.”
“What makes you think they care? Carry on asking questions and you’ll end up like Allstott and Jens and all the others, lying on a slab in the morgue. Anyway, like you said, we just lost the last chance to get hold of the picture so the investigation is dead. There’s nothing more for us to do.”
“There’s always more to do. Why don’t you work with me on this? We need a list of her friends and associates from the anti-war movement. Surely, someone noticed something. Maybe she had a roommate or classmate she confided in. Maybe she suffered from morning sickness. This was in the days of backstreet abortions. Where did she go to fix her little problem? Who performed the operation? There’s no such thing as a secret. It’s just a question of digging in the right places.”
“You’re not listening. You could wind up dead.”
“Bullshit. You’re just trying to scare me off so you can keep all the glory.”
“I see there’s no reasoning with you. Bien, do what you like but for me, it’s over. I don’t care what she did or didn’t do 40 years ago. I’m done.”
“I never pegged you as a quitter.”
“I’m not a quitter. I just want to live. Anyway, it’s her private business.”
“Not when people are getting killed it isn’t. This is America. We don’t do politics that way. When someone tries to steal our democracy, it’s the duty of the press to step forward and stop them.”
Delphine had to admire Todd’s guts and his idealism, but she didn’t share them. Whatever courage she’d possessed had been knocked out of her.
As soon as she put down the phone, Delphine had another ghastly thought: what if someone was listening into her conversations? Jason could have bugged the apartment. She imagined grubby operatives pleasuring themselves to the sounds of their lovemaking. Where would he place a device? She did a quick search of the obvious places but found nothing – no concealed transmitters in the socket plugs or the lamps, nothing in the phone jacks or electrical outlets. That didn’t mean she was in the clear but she lacked the expertise to do a more thorough sweep. In a couple of hours he’d be returning. They’d probably sleep together that night. Whether or not the place was bugged, she had to put on a good show. Nobody must get the impression that Delphine suspected anything.
She turned on CNN in time to catch the tail-end of a report on the murder. “So far, no official word on the victim’s identity. A police source said they’re looking into possible drug connections. But residents of the nation’s capital are asking, ‘If this can happen in broad daylight with tourists, office workers and just ordinary folk crowding the streets, is there anywhere in this city that is safe?’
“And now we have some new and potentially explosive details on a story you heard exclusively here on CNN earlier this week. As you may recall, the Israeli navy intercepted a boat full of weapons off the coast of Gaza. Officials said the arms might have been headed for the Palestinian Martyrs Brigade terrorist group. Now CNN has learned the vessel belonged to an Arab shipping company, Gulf Freight Services, that was recently acquired by a U.S. company, Stafford Holdings. For more, we go to Stewart Wentworth at the State Department.”
Stewart’s face appeared. “According to senior intelligence sources, the ship, the al Jazeer, set sail from Oman and docked in the Syrian port of Latakia. Two days later, it was intercepted by Israeli naval assets. The sources said …”
A loud knock interrupted Stewart’s report. Looking through the peephole Delphine saw two men in suits, both African Americans.
“Police, open up,” one called, holding up a badge. She’d been tracked down. Reluctantly, she let them in, turned off the TV and the three of them sat down around the kitchen table. Both cops declined Delphine’s offer of a cold drink.
“Why d’you run away?” the big burly one wanted to know, mopping sweat from his face with a large white handkerchief.
Delphine gave her best imitation of a little lost girl. “I was so shocked and scared. I just panicked. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. It was instinct. I wanted to get somewhere safe. I know it was wrong. I was about to call the police when you arrived.”
“How did you know the victim?”
“I’d never met him before.”
“So you’re saying it wasn’t personal like you told the barman. You two weren’t …” He paused, tasting the next two words on his tongue … “sexually intimate.”
Delphine restrained herself from smiling. “No, not at all, I’m in a relationship.”
“So why tell the barman that stuff about being engaged and all the rest. You saying you made it all up?”
“It was a joke, to get him off my back. He was a pest. He was annoying me.”
The little guy scribbled furiously.
“So what was your business with the victim?” the big one asked.
“He said he had some information that would interest me.”
“What information?”
“He said it had something to do with Elton Schuyler, the man he occasionally worked for.” There was no way she’d mention the photo. As far as Delphine was concerned, it had never existed.
“Why are you interested in him?”
“I’m writing a book about Secretary of State Julia Dayton. The rumor is she and Schuyler will soon be getting married. That’s why I agreed to the meeting.”
“So what was the information?”
“I don’t know. Allstott demanded money upfront. I told him I wouldn’t pay and that ended the conversation. It was probably some stupid gossip he picked up. Maybe he thought he could make a quick buck out me because I’m relatively young and inexperienced. But there was no way I was doing any deals with him. He struck me as an unsavory type from the moment I saw him.”
The phone rang. All three of them sat looking at it until the answering machine picked up. “Delphine, this is Jean-Luc,” Delphine’s boss said in French. “Where the hell are you? Call immediately. I assume you’re working on a story about the murder you witnessed. I want to know all the details, tout de suit.”
“Who was that?” the large detective asked.
“My editor.”
“What was he speaking?”
“French. He wanted to know if I was writing a story about this.”
“Are you?”
“I’ve got nothing to say. I didn’t see anything and I have no idea why he was killed.” The officers asked a few more questions but the steam had gone out of them and they left five minutes later, after scolding Delphine once more for not coming forward and warning they might want to interview her again.
Jean-Luc phoned twice more in the next couple of hours, threatening Delphine with instant termination and if she failed to make contact. She let the machine pick up and didn’t return his calls.
&n
bsp; At 7:30, Jason showed up bearing half a dozen roses the color of blood. Delphine suddenly remembered she was supposed to go over to his place to meet his brother.
“I heard about what happened,” he said. “It must have been awful.”
Delphine went to him, burying her head in his chest, inhaling his familiar smell, thinking, “I’ll miss this when it’s over,” because, despite everything, they still fit so well together.
“What a day you must have had.”
“It wasn’t all bad,” Delphine joked shakily. “Someone offered me a million dollars this morning. That doesn’t happen every day.”
“What?” She explained about Devon Dawson and the book contract.
“This calls for a celebration – if you’re up to it.” If this was acting, he was doing a superb job. Once again, he had her persuaded --almost. Perhaps he was one of those people with the ability to lose themselves so thoroughly in the moment that they become totally convincing whichever part they’re playing.
“So what do you feel like doing?” he asked.
In answer, Delphine grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him toward her, crushing his lips with her own. She hadn’t consciously planned it but when he responded, a corner of her mind couldn’t help thinking that a display of passion at this juncture was tactically astute. What better way of letting him know she harbored no suspicions? Then, they were staggering toward the bedroom and Delphine stopped analyzing.
When it was over, Delphine felt herself weeping, because she could not fully trust either of them, and because she’d been shadowed by death since she was a little girl, and because she wanted so desperately to live. Looking at Jason, she was surprised to see his eyes had welled up too. Stroking his spiky hair in the wrong direction, she asked what was wrong.
“I suddenly realized that for once in my life, maybe for the first time in my life, I actually care about someone other than myself more than myself,” he said. “It’s an unfamiliar feeling.”
If their feigning, feinting affair was a kind of fencing match, Delphine knew then they were both pierced. She could see him waiting for her to respond. Luckily the phone rang and she sprang up to answer it.
“Why are you not returning my calls?” Jean-Luc Boulez demanded.
“I was detained with the police. Anyway I had nothing to tell you.”
“Nothing to tell? You are seen in a bar with a man. A minute later, he is gunned down in the middle of America’s capital city—and you say you have nothing to tell?”
“Honestly, I don’t know anything that wasn’t on TV, probably less. We didn’t have a substantive conversation. He said he had some tidbit of gossip he wanted to feed me but he demanded money and I refused.”
“What gossip?”
“Something to do with Elton Schuyler, he wouldn’t say what. It was probably nothing. I do have some other news. Secretary Dayton has asked me to ghostwrite a book for her about her Middle East peace efforts.” Delphine threw that in, hoping to get him off the subject of Allstott’s murder. It worked.
“Dayton asked you? That’s tremendous. And good for our agency. It will raise our profile. It means you’ll have access to information others aren’t getting. Presumably she’ll be briefing you personally on a regular basis.”
“Much of it will be off the record.”
“But some things you’ll be able to use. Just don’t forget who you work for. You know the company will have to formally approve this arrangement.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’m sure I can persuade them, especially if you produce more scoops. You’re sure you have nothing to add to this murder? Perhaps an eyewitness account?”
“I didn’t see anything. I heard the shots from inside a bar. They sounded like shots. I think there were two of them. You want me to write that?”
“I suppose not. When do you leave for Moscow with Dayton?”
“Eight tomorrow evening.”
“I want a curtainraiser first thing tomorrow morning. I look forward to more great reporting. Bon chance, Delphine”
“How long will you be gone?” Jason asked after Jean-Luc rang off.
“They say just a few days but I’m sure we’ll go on to the Middle East. Dayton will want to work on the next stage of her peace plan. We’ll probably be on the road at least a couple of weeks. What will you do?”
“I start at Schuyler’s mansion, or should I say fortress, on Monday. They called late this afternoon. They need someone to fill in for a few days. At least we have tonight and tomorrow together. What do you want to do?”
“Something totally normal. Maybe take a hike or go to the movies.”
They ended up doing both. After that, they went back to Jason’s apartment and she finally got to meet his brother who looked like another version of Jason – same mouth, same cleft chin, same devastating eyes. Examining them carefully, Delphine thought she could see some subtle differences. Jason was skin and sinew, all lithe energy. His brother was a couple of pounds heavier around the midriff and seemed more deliberate in the way he spoke and moved. But perhaps it was all in her imagination. As a child, Delphine had sometimes fantasized about having a little sister. Now, she enjoyed seeing the instant rapport and easy affection between the two of them.
“Now I see why Jason can’t stop talking about you,” Craig said. “I’ve never seen him so smitten before over a woman.”
Delphine laughed self-consciously but his words gave her pause because nobody knew Jason better than his brother. Perhaps he really was one of the good guys. At the end of the evening, they returned to her place. Their lovemaking was slow and gentle. Afterward, listening to his soft, steady breathing, Delphine thought, “This could be my life, our life.” Then she told herself not to be ridiculous. There would never be that kind of life for the likes of her.
Chapter 15
On the way to the airport next evening for Secretary Dayton’s crucial trip to Moscow, Delphine ran into a huge snarl-up on the Washington Beltway. She’d left plenty of time but as traffic slowed to a crawl and finally ground to a stop she began worrying she’d miss the flight. Turning on the radio, she soon heard the cause – a serious collision a few miles ahead. The road was closed on both sides while a helicopter evacuated casualties and police cleared the wreckage. Delphine sat for 45 minutes, looking at her own furrowed brow in the mirror, resisting the temptation to pound the steering wheel. Finally, traffic started moving again.
Minutes later, Delphine passed the accident site which was brightly illuminated by police floodlights. One horribly crushed car had been dragged off to the shoulder; it had obviously been struck by a large trailer which had jackknifed around and was still blocking two lanes. She noticed the Frostburg Frozen Foods logo and wondered, as one does, about the victims. After passing the scene, traffic sped up. Delphine floored the accelerator and made the remaining distance to Andrews Air Force Base in record time.
“The Secretary’s already boarded. They’ve closed the doors, they’re about to take off,” an officer told her as she rushed into the VIP terminal. He spoke into a walkie-talkie. “One more just arrived. What’s your name Ma’am?”
Delphine told him and he relayed the information. “OK, they’re holding for you,” he said. Five minutes later, after the dog had sniffed her luggage and she’d been patted down, she hurried out on the tarmac and bounded up the steps, relieved to be aboard.
There were some new faces in the press section and some empty seats. Todd waved an arm at her. A couple of security guys also nodded greetings. Ira ignored her. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since the last time Delphine had seen him. The pouches under his eyes hung halfway down his face; his eyes were red and watery, his complexion a sickly olive shade.
Delphine had been assigned a seat next to a pretty dark-haired woman of around her own age “Robin Browne, ABC News,” she said smiling bright
ly.
“You’re Don’s replacement?”
“Right, not that anyone can replace a legend.” She’d obviously been briefed about the dress code on board; she was wearing a hot pink polyester warm-up complete with swoosh. Delphine herself had bowed to the inevitable and was wearing the black outfit she’d bought in Amman, which at least had the virtue of drawing no attention to itself.
“Have you made one of these trips before?” Delphine asked.
“Never. Don did them all. It’s exciting but intimidating.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure. Although you’ll never match his hair. I see your toughest competition isn’t here. Did Stewart Wentworth miss the plane?”
“Maybe he decided to skip this trip to do more reporting on his arms smuggling exclusive. He’s way ahead of everyone on that one.”
“You’d think his editors would have sent a replacement if that were the case. Maybe he just got snarled in the traffic. By the way, I’m Delphine Roget.”
“I know. I really admire your work. You’ve set the bar awfully high.” She reminded Delphine of her own fawning over Lisa Hemmings on her first trip.
Bridget Daly, who’d been appointed acting spokesperson in Erik’s place, came back to say hello. “I see you two have already made friends,” she said. “It’s wonderful to see women in the press corps. We have to stick up for one another.”
“It’s nice to see a woman spokesperson as well,” said Robin.
“And a woman as Secretary of State,” added Bridget. This was turning into quite a hen party, Delphine thought.
“Did we have to take off in such a rush before all our colleagues had arrived?” she asked, pointing to the empty seats. “Couldn’t you have waited another quarter of an hour? There was a horrific accident on the Beltway that completely jammed the traffic.”
“We delayed as long as we could,” Bridget said, shrinking a couple of inches before Delphine’s eyes. “We have a schedule to stick to – takeoff and landing slots. But Secretary Dayton was particularly anxious about you, Delphine. She kept asking if you’d arrived yet.”