The Pelican Brief

Twenty

Garcia called for the last time. Grantham took the call before dawn Saturday, less than two hours before they were to meet for the first time. He was backing out, he said. The time was not right. If the story broke, then some very powerful lawyers and their very rich clients would fall hard, and these people were not accustomed to falling, and they would take people with them. And Garcia might get hurt. He had a wife and little daughter. He had a job that he could endure because the money was great. Why take chances? He had done nothing wrong. His conscience was clear.

“Then why do you keep calling me?” Grantham asked.

“I think I know why they were killed. I’m not certain, but I’ve got a good idea. I saw something, okay.”

“We’ve had this conversation for a week now, Garcia. You saw something, or you have something. And it’s all useless unless you show it to me.” Grantham opened a file and took out the five by sevens of the man on the phone. “You’re driven by a sense of morality, Garcia. That’s why you want to talk.”

“Yeah, but there’s a chance they know that I know. They’ve been treating me funny, as if they want to ask if I saw it. But they can’t ask because they’re not sure.”

“These are the guys in your firm?”

“Yeah. No. Wait. How’d you know I was in a firm? I haven’t told you that.”

“It’s easy. You go to work too early to be a government lawyer. You’re in one of those two-hundred-lawyer firms where they expect the associates and junior partners to work a hundred hours a week. The first time you called me you said you were on the way to the office, and it was something like 5 A.M.”

“Well, well, what else do you know?”

“Not much. We’re playing games, Garcia. If you’re not willing to talk, then hang up and leave me alone. I’m losing sleep.”

“Sweet dreams.” Garcia hung up. Grantham stared at the receiver.

Three times in the past eight years he had unlisted his phone number. He lived by the phone, and his biggest stories came out of nowhere over the phone. But after or during each big one, there had been a thousand insignificant ones from sources who felt compelled to call at all hours of the night with their hot little morsels. He was known as a reporter who would face a firing squad before revealing a source, so they called and called and called. He’d get sick of it, and get a new, unlisted number. Then hit a dry spell. Then rush to get back in the D.C. directory.

He was there now. Gray S. Grantham. The only one in the book. They could get him at work twelve hours a day, but it was so much more secretive and private to call him at home, especially at odd hours when he was trying to sleep.

He fumed over Garcia for thirty minutes, then fell asleep. He was in a rhythm and dead to the world when it rang again. He found it in the darkness. “Hello.”

It was not Garcia. It was a female. “Is this Gray Grantham with the Washington Post?”

“It is. And who are you?”

“Are you still on the story about Rosenberg and Jensen?”

He sat in the darkness and stared at the clock. Five-thirty. “It’s a big story. We’ve got a lot of people on it, but, yes, I’m investigating.”

“Have you heard of the pelican brief?”

He breathed deeply and tried to think. “The pelican brief. No. What is it?”

“It’s a harmless little theory about who killed them. It was taken to Washington last Sunday by a man named Thomas Callahan, a professor of law at Tulane. He gave it to a friend with the FBI, and it was passed around. Things snowballed, and Callahan was killed in a car bombing Wednesday night in New Orleans.”

The lamp was on and he was scribbling. “Where are you calling from?”

“New Orleans. A pay phone, so don’t bother.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I wrote the brief.”

He was wide awake now, wild-eyed and breathing rapidly. “Okay. If you wrote it, tell me about it.”

“I don’t want to do it that way, because even if you had a copy you couldn’t run the story.”

“Try me.”

“You couldn’t. It’ll take some thorough verification.”

“Okay. We’ve got the Klan, the terrorist Khamel, the Under ground Army, the Aryans, the—”

“Nope. None of the above. They’re a bit obvious. The brief is about an obscure suspect.”

He was pacing at the foot of the bed, holding the phone. “Why can’t you tell me who it is?”

“Maybe later. You seem to have these magical sources. Let’s see what you find.”

“Callahan will be easy to check out. That’s one phone call. Give me twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll try to call Monday morning. If we’re gonna do business, Mr. Grantham, you must show me something. The next time I call, tell me something I don’t know.”

She was at a pay phone in the dark. “Are you in danger?” he asked.

“I think so. But I’m okay for now.”

She sounded young, mid-twenties, maybe. She wrote a brief. She knew the law professor. “Are you a lawyer?”

“No, and don’t spend your time digging after me. You’ve got work to do, Mr. Grantham, or I’ll go elsewhere.”

“Fine. You need a name.”

“I’ve got one.”

“I mean a code name.”

“You mean like spies and all. Gee, this could be fun.”

“Either that or give me your real name.”

“Nice try. Just call me Pelican.”

His parents were good Irish Catholics, but he had sort of quit many years ago. They were a handsome couple, dignified in mourning, well tanned and dressed. He had seldom mentioned them. They walked hand in hand with the rest of the family into Rogers Chapel. His brother from Mobile was shorter and looked much older. Thomas said he had a drinking problem.

For half an hour, students and faculty had streamed into the small chapel. The game was tonight and there was a nice crowd on campus. A television van was parked in the street. A cameraman kept a respectable distance and shot the front of the chapel. A campus policeman watched him carefully and kept him in place.

It was odd seeing these law students with dresses and heels and coats and ties. In a dark room on the third floor of Newcomb Hall, the Pelican sat with her face to the window and watched the students mill about and speak softly and finish their cigarettes. Under her chair were four newspapers, already read and discarded. She’d been there for two hours, reading by sunlight and waiting on the service. There was no other place to be. She was certain the bad guys were lurking in the bushes around the chapel, but she was learning patience. She had come early, would stay late, and move in the shadows. If they found her, maybe they would do it quick and it would be over.

She gripped a wadded paper towel and dried her eyes. It was okay to cry now, but this was the last one. The people were all inside, and the television van left. The paper said it was a memorial service with private burial later. There was no casket inside.

She had selected this moment to run, to rent a car and drive to Baton Rouge, then jump on the first plane headed to any place except New Orleans. She would get out of the country, perhaps Montreal or Calgary. She would hide there for a year and hope the crime would be solved and the bad guys put away.

But it was a dream. The quickest route to justice ran smack through her. She knew more than anyone. The Fibbies had circled close, then backed off, and were now chasing who knows who. Verheek had gotten nowhere, and he was close to the Director. She would have to piece it together. Her little brief had killed Thomas, and now they were after her. She knew the identity of the man behind the murders of Rosenberg and Jensen and Callahan, and this knowledge made her rather unique.

Suddenly, she leaned forward. The tears dried on her cheeks. There he was! The thin man with the narrow face! He was wearing a coat and tie and looked properly mournful as he walked quickly to the chapel. It was him! The man she’d last seen in the lobby of the Sheraton on, when was it, Thursday morning. She’d been talking to Verheek when he strolled suspiciously through.

He stopped at the door, jerked his head nervously around — he was a klutz, really, a giveaway. He stared for a second at three cars parked innocently on the street, less than fifty yards away. He opened the door, and was in the chapel. Beautiful. The bastards killed him, and now they joined his family and friends for last respects.

Her nose touched the window. The cars were too far away, but she was certain there was a man in one watching for her. Surely they knew she was not so dumb and so heartbroken as to show up and mourn her lover. They knew that. She had eluded them for two and a half days. The tears were gone.

Ten minutes later, the thin man came out by himself, lit a cigarette, and strolled with hands stuck deep in his pockets toward the three cars. He was sad. What a guy.

He walked in front of the cars but did not stop. When he was out of sight, a door opened and a man in a green Tulane sweatshirt emerged from the middle car. He walked down the street after the thin one. He was not thin. He was short, thick, and powerful. A regular stump.

He disappeared down the sidewalk behind the thin man, behind the chapel. Darby poised on the edge of the folding chair. Within a minute, they emerged on the sidewalk from behind the building. They were together now, whispering, but for only a moment because the thin man peeled off and disappeared down the street. Stump walked quickly to his car and got in. He just sat there, waiting for the service to break up and get one last look at the crowd on the off chance that she was in fact stupid enough to show up.

It had taken less than ten minutes for the thin man to sneak inside, scan the crowd of, say, two hundred people, and determine she was not there. Perhaps he was looking for the red hair. Or bleached blond. No, it made more sense for them to have people already in there, sitting around prayerfully and looking sad, looking for her or anyone who might resemble her. They could nod or shake or wink at the thin man. This place was crawling with them.

Havana was a perfect sanctuary. It mattered not if ten or a hundred countries had bounties on his throat. Fidel was an admirer and occasional client. They drank together, shared women, and smoked cigars. He had the run of the place: a nice little apartment on Calle de Torre in the old section, a car with a driver, a banker who was a wizard at blitzing money around the world, any size boat he wanted, a military plane if needed, and plenty of young women. He spoke the language and his skin was not pale. He loved the place.

He had once agreed to kill Fidel, but couldn’t do it. He was in place and two hours away from the murder, but just wouldn’t pull it off. There was too much admiration. It was back in the days when he did not always kill for money. He pulled a double cross, and confessed to Fidel. They faked an ambush, and word spread that the great Khamel had been gunned down in the streets of Havana.

Never again would he travel by commercial air. The photographs in Paris were embarrassing for such a professional. He was losing his touch; getting careless in the twilight of his career. Got his picture on the front pages in America. How shameful. His client was not pleased.

The boat was a forty-foot schooner with two crew members and a young woman, all Cubans. She was below in the cabin. He had finished with her a few minutes before they saw the lights of Biloxi. He was all business now, inspecting his raft, packing his bag, saying nothing. The crew members crouched on the deck and stayed away from him.

At exactly nine, they lowered the raft onto the water. He dropped his bag into it, and was gone. They heard the trolling motor as he disappeared into the blackness of the Sound. They were to remain anchored until dawn, then haul it back to Havana. They held perfect papers declaring them to be Americans, in the event they were discovered and someone began asking questions.

He eased patiently through the still water, dodging buoy lights and the sight of an occasional small craft. He held perfect papers too, and three weapons in the bag.

It had been years since he struck twice in one month. After he was allegedly gunned down in Cuba, there had been a five-year drought. Patience was his forte. He averaged one a year.

And this little victim would go unnoticed. No one would suspect him. It was such a small job, but his client was adamant and he happened to be in the neighborhood, and the money was right, so here he was in another six-foot rubber raft cruising toward a beach, hoping like hell his pal Luke would be there dressed not as a farmer, but a fisherman this time.

This would be the last for a long time, maybe forever. He had more money than he could ever spend or give away. And he had started making small mistakes.

He saw the pier in the distance, and moved away from it. He had thirty minutes to waste. He followed the shoreline for a quarter of a mile, then headed for it. Two hundred yards out, he turned off the trolling motor, unhitched it, and dropped it into the water. He lay low in the raft, worked a plastic oar when necessary, and gently guided himself to a dark spot behind a row of cheap brick buildings thirty feet ashore. He stood in two feet of water and ripped holes in the raft with a small pocketknife. It sank and disappeared. The beach was deserted.

Luke was alone at the end of the pier. It was exactly eleven, and he was in place with a rod and reel. He wore a white cap, and the bill moved slowly back and forth as he scanned the water in search of the raft. He checked his watch.

Suddenly a man was beside him, appearing from no where like an angel. “Luke?” the man said.

This was not the code. Luke was startled. He had a gun in the tackle box at his feet, but there was no way. “Sam?” he asked. Maybe he had missed something. Maybe Khamel couldn’t find the pier from the raft.

“Yes, Luke, it’s me. Sorry about the deviation. Trouble with the raft.”

Luke’s heart settled and he breathed relief.

“Where’s the vehicle?” Khamel asked.

Luke glanced at him ever so quickly. Yes, it was Khamel, and he was staring at the ocean behind dark glasses.

Luke nodded at a building. “Red Pontiac next to the liquor store.”

“How far to New Orleans?”

“Half an hour,” Luke said as he reeled in nothing.

Khamel stepped back, and hit him twice at the base of the neck. Once with each hand. The vertebrae burst and snapped the spinal cord. Luke fell hard and moaned once. Khamel watched him die, then found the keys in a pocket. He kicked the corpse off into the water.

Edwin Sneller or whatever his name was did not open the door, but quietly slid the key under it. Khamel picked it up, and opened the door to the next room. He walked in, and moved quickly to the bed where he placed his bag, then to the window where the curtains were open and the river was in the distance. He pulled the curtains together, and studied the lights of the French Quarter below.

He walked to the phone and punched Sneller’s number.

“Tell me about her,” Khamel said softly to the floor.

“There are two photos in the briefcase.”

Khamel opened it and removed the photos. “I’ve got them.”

“They’re numbered, one and two. One we got from the law school yearbook. It’s about a year old, and the most current we have. It’s a blowup from a tiny picture, so we lost a lot of detail. The other photo is two years old. We lifted it from a yearbook at Arizona State.”

Khamel held both pictures. “A beautiful woman.”

“Yes. Quite beautiful. All that lovely hair is gone, though. Thursday night she paid for a hotel room with a credit card. We barely missed her Friday morning. We found long strands of hair on the floor and a small sample of something we now know to be black hair color. Very black.”

“What a shame.”

“We haven’t seen her since Wednesday night. She’s proven to be elusive: credit card for a room Wednesday, credit card at another hotel Thursday, then nothing from last night. She withdrew five thousand in cash from her checking account Friday afternoon, so the trail has become cold.”

“Maybe she’s gone.”

“Could be, but I don’t think so. Someone was in her apartment last night. We’ve got the place wired, and we were late by two minutes.”

“Moving sort of slow, aren’t you?”

“It’s a big town. We’ve camped out at the airport and train station. We’re watching her mother’s house in Idaho. No sign. I think she’s still here.”

“Where would she be?”

“Moving around, changing hotels, using pay phones, staying away from the usual places. The New Orleans police are looking for her. They talked to her after the bomb Wednesday, then lost her. We’re looking, they’re looking, she’ll turn up.”

“What happened with the bomb?”

“Very simple. She didn’t get in the car.”

“Who made the bomb?”

Sneller hesitated. “Can’t say.”

Khamel smiled slightly as he took some street maps from the briefcase. “Tell me about the maps.”

“Oh, just a few points of interest around town. Her place, his place, the law school, the hotels she’s been to, the bomb site, a few little bars she enjoys as a student.”

“She’s stayed in the Quarter so far.”

“She’s smart. There are a million places to hide.”

Khamel picked up the most recent photo, and sat on the other bed. He liked this face. Even with short dark hair, it would be an intriguing face. He could kill it, but it would not be pleasant.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” he said, almost to himself.

“Yes. It’s a shame.”