Close Quarters

THIRTY-EIGHT

Walter Conkley had found himself an ally, albeit a slightly dubious one. Marcella Cready was one of the most feared journalists in Washington, and had long been a painful thorn in the sides of the establishment and the power brokers swirling around the Capitol, with few able to escape her scrutiny when in pursuit of a story. Winner of numerous awards for investigative journalism, Cready had focussed her work on exposing criminal activities in government agencies, the military and even the UN. Although now in her early fifties, she was as sleek as a fashion model and had lost none of her campaigning fight, and had the tenacity of a pit bull when she fastened on a story.

Conkley was well aware of the potential dangers to himself of approaching Cready. She was ruthless when it came to protecting her sources, but even she couldn’t guarantee total secrecy in the city which never ever went off duty. She was too well known in official circles and anyone she met with was immediately considered to be providing her with information … or of being the next person on her hit list.

Surprisingly, she had agreed to an early meeting at a bar on 7th Street, where Conkley had been admitted by a security guard who had patted him down carefully before giving him the nod. Cready obviously carried some weight here, but he wasn’t surprised. They probably owed her for past favours. Put a media hitter like Cready in any evening or lunch-time bar or restaurant with a known staffer close to government and the place would fill quickly with the kind of political observers who relished being in on the early stages of a media hatchet job. And Marcella Cready was known for following only the leads to the biggest of stories.

‘I don’t want every detail at this time,’ she told him, gesturing for him to take a seat at a corner table. The rest of the room was deserted, the doors closed. Conkley sat down and wondered if the table was bugged.

Up close Cready was stunning, with slim legs, glossy hair, a full, curvy figure and flawless skin, save for a tiny hint of laughter lines around the eyes; only Conkley doubted they had anything to do with humour. She wore a suit that had probably cost what Conkley earned in a couple of months, and sat like a queen receiving a subject. But the good looks stopped short at the eyes, Conkley noted; they were almost dead, and ran across him without a flicker, assessing and probably dismissing him.

She made no offer of a drink, but that was fine. It didn’t make him feel good, but he hadn’t come here for a pep talk or a boost to his ego. The situation had gone beyond that.

He was accustomed to briefings, and gave her a summary of what he knew. She said little, occasionally making a brief note, which confirmed to him that there had to be a recording device nearby. The thought gave him a minor anxiety attack; he had never thought about his every word being recorded outside the confines of government before, yet here he was putting on record clear proof that he was involved with a group of men attempting to profit by using classified information that he had provided and been paid for.

When he finished speaking, she nodded once. ‘Very well. It sounds like a possible story, but I’ll have to run my own checks first. As soon as I’ve confirmed the viability of what you’ve told me we’ll have another talk.’

Conkley was alarmed. ‘You won’t go near them, will you? I mean, Benson and the others. They’ll know something’s been said.’

She smiled knowingly, which should have made her look beautiful and helped light up those eyes. But it made her look even colder, as if the façade might crack. ‘You mean everybody else will start asking questions about what I’ve got on such eminent gentlemen?’

‘Something like that.’

‘That won’t happen unless I want it to. You think I only ever get seen by chance in this town?’ The corner of her mouth dropped in an involuntary show of superiority, and Conkley decided he really didn’t much like Marcella Cready.

But it was too late for that now. Needs must. He’d thrown the bait out, and it had been snapped up. All he had to wait for was to see if the bait was acceptable.

‘Um … what about …?’ He wanted to say payment, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word. It seemed too … seedy.

Cready did it for him. ‘I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars in cash on confirmation that I’m happy to run with it, and a further fifteen on publication. I’ll also require you to sign a contract confirming our agreement and the dates of all our meetings and exchanges, and an agreement to not divulge any information elsewhere.’

‘What? Why?’ The idea of his signature on a piece of paper alarmed him. What he wanted to do was talk the talk and fade quietly into the sunset and obscurity, not be on record for ever as some kind of paid betrayer.

‘Because if I run with this, it will be my exclusive. I never share — you should know that by now. And when the lid comes off this — and believe me, if what you’ve outlined is true, Benson will not take the exposure lying down — I don’t want any disagreements in court about who said what and when. Understood?’

He nodded. The interview was over. He stood up, feeling as if he was being dismissed from the principal’s office, and was ushered out by the security guard, who smiled and wished him a nice day.

Marcella Cready watched Conkley go with mixed feelings. She had wanted to ignore him, to show her contempt for him and others in his position. A little man, like so many attached like grubby little pilot fish to the real power brokers in and around government, he was easy to despise. She wasn’t even surprised by what he had outlined to her. Having never commanded real position, he had found himself drawn into a situation where he could exercise some kind of imagined power through the information he was able to sell, no doubt flattered by those who probably despised him just as much as she did.

But dismissing him simply as a weak little man with imagined fears would have been criminally negligent of her. She had realized that the moment he began talking; the moment he had mentioned Senator Howard J. Benson.

Benson was one of the big beasts of the Washington community; a charming, impressive, smooth operator with almost unlimited connections, he had ceased being a senator when he realized he could command greater power and influence in Washington by serving in other capacities. Capacities where she suspected — no, knew — he had crossed the line on more than one occasion, either by hiding facts that would prove unpalatable to the American public, or by accepting ‘fees’ that would in any other area of the administration have been regarded as bribery. Yet she had never managed to pin anything on him with the kind of absolute accuracy that was needed to bring him down. She had tried more than once, and come close. But Benson had friends, and those friends never spoke, mostly, she suspected, because he had something on them.

And he knew it. He knew it and revelled in his untouchability. She could tell by the way he barely bothered to conceal a smirk whenever they met on the various junkets and power meetings where the press was invited, and the comments he made within her hearing, as if challenging her to try again.

She had certainly tried, but nothing concrete had emerged and she had been forced to drop it, safe in the knowledge that one day somebody would talk and she would have her moment.

Now this. This was different. Conkley, for all his faults, had brought something real to the table. Something she could fasten on. Notes, dates, events. And recordings. It meant all the friends in the world wouldn’t help Benson once the facts began to dribble out. Because one thing about friends like these was, they could quickly become enemies if the right pressure was applied and they saw the dangers to themselves of being associated with a man on the brink of disaster.

She gathered her things together and nodded to Sean, the security guard. He walked towards the back of the bar and opened the outside door for her, checking the street carefully before allowing her through. Leaving via the back entrance wasn’t Cready’s usual style, but in this town it paid to be unpredictable.