Wednesday, November 1
Wednesday morning brought a fresh batch of polls to an election that was just six days away-polls that showed Hutchins holding on to a three-point lead over his Democratic rival, Senator Stanny Nichols. To be sure, this was not Lincoln versus Douglas or Truman versus Dewey.
Hell, it wasn't even Ford versus Carter. A week and a half before, when I packed my clubs into my car and drove out to Congressional Country Club, the presidential race was a statistical dead heat, pardon the pun. But the president had received a critical shot in the arm from that, well, shot in the arm. His approval ratings had risen nearly ten points, into the mid-60-percent range. Hutchins had suffered only a flesh wound in that blaze of gunfire; but Stanny Nichols saw his political career seriously injured.
Still, three points remained within that so-called margin of error that the boys over at Gallup always make sure we are well aware of. Despite Hutchins's good fortune, there was a sense of unease with him in the country, a lack of familiarity-and voters like to feel as if they know their president. Much of politics is about simple images, and some of that unease was erased out at Congressional Country Club when that nice paramedic was kind enough to poke Hutchins's words around and make him seem a nonchalant, combat-tested hero, cut right out of the American flag. Enough, anyway, to give him this three-point polling lead.
Truth is, the closest Hutchins ever got to military action was probably playing with his GI Joe as a young boy and watching McHale's Navy and F
Troop on TV. And the further truth is, voters were still nagged by a sense that they didn't really know the man.
The anxiety was evident throughout the White House. Lincoln Powers's mood was getting worse, not better. The president's campaign days were getting increasingly longer and more urgent. Aides seemed grim-faced, even in television interviews, as if the totality of events that was supposed to happen after that shooting didn't.
Give Nichols credit for hanging tough. He had been plagued by allegations of corruption-specifically, using his standing as a United States senator to receive a highly favorable purchase price on a Breckenridge chalet from the owner of a major ski resort, one of his top contributors, and then failing to pay the appropriate tax on it.
Add to that his lack of national experience. When all of the major Democrats took a pass on the race because they assumed they'd be running against Hutchins's popular predecessor, Wordsworth Cole, Nichols was the only one who stepped in to fill the void. In another time, in another place, he would have been known as the sacrificial lamb. Here, he was the Democratic nominee.
After Cole died, Nichols had suddenly become a contender, legal problems and all. Smartly, he made the press a major issue in his campaign, saying it was time that the news media stopped hindering the rich dialogue of a great nation with two-bit tattletale stories about old and misreported events. It was a message that seemed to resonate with the voting public.
Meanwhile, Hutchins did his very best at playing the delicate role of national consoler, and his very best was pretty good. He had performed flawlessly in his brief tenure as president. He paid public respect to Cole almost every day, every chance he got. At the same time, in policy decisions, he made clear what he would always call his
"respectful" differences. One of them was in the area of day care.
Hutchins quickly signaled to Democratic senators that he would sign legislation restoring federal subsidies for child care, a decision, analysts later said, that would allow welfare mothers to return to work in greater numbers. Even the most conservative of commentators agreed with him that to create a foundation for a society without welfare, the government had to help poor people get out of the house.
Next, in an impromptu press conference in the press cabin of Air Force One, a correspondent from the Associated Press asked Hutchins about his opinion on abortion. It was the first time he had been asked about the issue as president. Until then, he never had the inclination or the reason to let his feelings be known.
"What the hell business is it of mine what a pregnant woman does to herself?" Hutchins growled at the reporter, in a voice that harked back to Lyndon Johnson. "Do I want her to have an abortion? God, no.
That's not good for anyone-not her, not the fetus, probably not even for society. Am I willing to tell her you can't do this or that with your own body? No again. That's just not what I'm in public life to do."
His answer sent shock waves across the country. The prolife groups, who had always assumed that since Hutchins was a Republican vice president, he was on their side, went ballistic. They arrived in Washington en masse for an enormous protest on the Ellipse, carrying buckets of what they said were dead fetuses that they flung over the iron fence of the White House onto the South Lawn. The mainstream Republican Party was uneasy about his stand but quickly realized there was nothing anyone could do about it, and Ted Rockingham, ever soothing, worked his myriad personal friendships to help calm so many nerves. The nominating convention was already over. Hutchins was president, and like it or not, he was their candidate in the November election. And now he was three points ahead.
My desk telephone jarred me back to reality. It was early yet to be at work, evidenced by the fact that, at 8:30 A.m." I was alone in the bureau. As I reached for the phone, I prayed that this would finally be my conversation with the anonymous source.
"A little less than a week out from Election Day victory, and there you are on the sidelines, and we're giving you the chance to come on over here and get in the game." It was the voice of Lincoln Powers, sounding a little less southern and lilting than it usually did.
"You know what it's like to drive through the White House gates to work every morning?" he asked. "You know what it's like to be quoted in all the major newspapers every day, as someone who matters? You know what it's like to have a whole staff of assistants to help you out, worshipful little things who'll do whatever it takes to make you happy?"
"Anything, huh?" I said, playing along, being a guy. I added, "Look, Mr. Powers-"
"Please," he interrupted urgently, "you call me Link."
"Lincoln," I said, "the president asked me to carefully consider my decision, so I am doing just that."
Powers said, "Absolutely no rush. Meantime, I thought we might get together for breakfast or lunch, talk it all over in a little more detail, the plans I have for you over here."
I said, "That would be really nice, and helpful as well. But things are really pretty rough for me right now."
"I'll have my secretary call you," he said. "We'll set something up for tomorrow or Friday. Maybe you come over here and eat in the White House mess, see how the whole thing feels."
God only knew where the next two days would find me, but I didn't want to say that to Powers, so I replied, "Good, let's see how the days play out. Thanks for thinking about me."
"Before you go, just one more thing," he said, his voice changing, his tone becoming more serious.
"Sure," I replied.
"You didn't get this from me, and this may not be worth anything at all, but I know for a fact that the FBI has assigned a couple of agents to look into any possible connection between Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson and the assassination attempt."
The revelation stunned me. Graham was Stanny Nichols's campaign manager. Mick Wilkerson was his longtime chief political strategist.
Together, they were the brain trust that had catapulted their candidate to the Democratic nomination. Perhaps this is what my anonymous source meant when he told me that nothing was as it seemed. Perhaps my anonymous source actually worked in the Nichols camp.
This didn't gel with anything else I had, but it was something to keep in mind.
"I appreciate the heads up," I replied, trying to contain my surprise.
"As I said, this didn't come from me."
As I hung up, I saw Havlicek pull up to his desk on the other side of the room, then neatly lay out his autopsy photographs and report around his computer, either to get everything within reach or to inspire himself. You could never tell with this guy. I, meanwhile, eyed my phone, picked up the receiver to make sure it was working, then began etching out questions on a yellow legal pad.
"What are you doing?"
That was Peter Martin, arriving at my desk, somewhat more at ease than usual.
"Nothing," I said, feeling like a little kid just caught stealing his sister's crayons. I still hadn't told him about this anonymous voice, and I had no plans to until I got something concrete.
"That's some hit Havlicek has for morning, no?" Martin asked, in a question that explained his good mood.
I said, "It's a great one. I'm going to work the telephones to see if I can help him out on my end. Otherwise, I'll be prepared to jump in and do anything I can in terms of follows. I suspect there'll be many."
"Good. I've got to tell you, I know we're in the throes of battle and all, but Appleton's none too happy about putting a story on the front page of the first edition yesterday, then having to pull it off. He's all over my case about it."
He let that sit out there for a minute, until I said, "I'm sorry. It's entirely my fault. I'll send Appleton an e-mail or give him a call and tell him as much."
"No need. I've got us covered on it," Martin said, shaking his head.
I kept going anyway. "Look, Peter, I screwed up. I know I did. But I think someone was intentionally trying to screw me up, and that someone might be the militia leader and the FBI. This could be a much larger story, an exclusive story, because I made that mistake."
Martin started wringing his hands together, as he sometimes does when a veteran senator announces he's not seeking reelection or the president pocket vetoes a piece of tax legislation. He said, "Go on."
I told him what happened. I told of the talk with Nathaniel, of the phone call with Kent Drinker, of the, well, encounter with the kid named Bo at the Dew Drop Inn. "The obvious question is, why is an assistant director of the FBI paying a house call on one of the nation's emerging militia leaders a couple of weeks before a presidential assassination attempt in which the militia is blamed, at least initially?"
Martin rolled up a chair and sat down beside my desk. He said, "To concoct a story. That's what you think, right?"
I replied, "Well, maybe. But that presupposes that Drinker would know about an assassination attempt, doesn't it? So doesn't that become a little far-fetched?"
"That it does. So why else?" He paused, looking at me, and added,
"Because Drinker had a tip about an assassination attempt? He wanted to check it out with the militia. That's still a good story, no?"
"Could be," I said. "But then, why the coordinated story lines now about this guy in Wyoming, Billy Walbin?"
We both sat there, baffled. My head hurt from thinking, hoping, waiting for this anonymous source. This wasn't so much journalism as algebra-trying to fit all the figures into a complex equation.
I said, "Havlicek and I were bouncing around the idea that this thing could have been staged, you know, like maybe some eleventh-hour election ploy."
Martin looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head. "I don't think there's any way," he said. "I think I know this city pretty well. I think I know politics pretty well. And I can't even imagine that anyone would dare pull such a stunt, and that it could be kept secret." He paused and added, "it would be one thing if Hutchins were down by ten points with less than two weeks left. But this thing was neck and neck. He didn't need anything this dramatic."
Good points, all, but I was increasingly unconvinced. The timing of the assassination attempt bugged me, the poor aim of the shooter, the resulting fanfare and rise in Hutchins's favorability ratings. Still, it was far-fetched, so I felt silly pushing it. I said, "At the least, we need to get someone out to Wyoming, ASAP, to pay a call on this militia leader, and I don't know if that's what I ought to be doing right now."
"You're right," Martin said. "And done. I'll send Phil Braxton"-another bureau reporter-"out there today."
"One more thing," I said. "I just got an off-the-record tip that Nichols's guys, Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson, are being looked at by the FBI as possibly having some sort of link to this."
Martin stared at me incredulously. "Link to the assassination attempt?" he asked, skeptically.
I shook my head.
"Who the hell is telling you this?"
"It's off the record," I said. "But it's coming from Lincoln Powers."
"Sounds like a stunt," Martin said. "Sounds like they're just trying to create some sort of negative buzz about their opponent a week before the election. We've got to be careful of that." He paused, then added, "And we also have to check it out." Then he got up and retreated to his office.
Other reporters were beginning to arrive at the bureau, including Julie Gershman, who walked in wearing a short, rust-colored skirt that inspired a sense of warmth in any man fortunate enough to see her, including me. I say this in a good way, as another indication that I was becoming whole.
She gave me a come-hither look-okay, so I have no idea what a come-hither look is, but I read about it once in my wife's Cosmopolitan-as she tucked her hair behind a tiny ear.
"We ever going to grab that drink, or are we going to continue to be two emotionless drones, coming to work, making small talk, going home?" she asked.
"Hey, you leave my lifestyle out of this, okay?"
She laughed. "Tonight?" she asked.
"Can't, unfortunately. Already meeting someone for a story. Let me dig myself out of this assassination story, and we'll get together then."
"I'm going to hold you to it," she said, and I hoped she was good for her word.
The telephone rang, and I fairly well jumped on top of it, only to find it was my friend Harry Putnam, wanting to head to the Capital Grille for steaks, cottage fries, some red wine, and cigars that night. Who am I, Dean Martin or something? Everyone thinks I'm available at the drop of a dime for an offer of a beer?
I turned up the volume on my ringer and roamed across the room, toward Havlicek. This felt all right in here today, better than I would have expected. We had some good hits behind us. We had one in the pipeline. Things were popping, and they would continue to be in the near term. Despite the debacle of Idaho, the looks I was getting, the comments, the backslaps, told me I was firmly back on top, on my game.
"Hey there, slugger," Havlicek said as I pulled up to his desk and caught a glimpse of the photos. I rounded the desk so I wouldn't have to see them.
I said, "I'll spread around a few calls on this, but only to people who'll keep the information close. I don't want to let word around on what we have."
"Good show," he said. "Let me know what you turn up. More important, let me know when you hear from your guy. You'll press him on the issue?"
"Of course. Let's just hope he calls."
Havlicek leaned back for a minute, taking his eyes off the computer screen for the first time. "He'll call," he said. "We've got him.
He's in this thing, and wants to get in deeper, and he knows we're a good vehicle. If he doesn't know that now, he'll sure know it tomorrow morning when he reads this story."
At that precise moment, I heard my telephone ringing across the room and sprinted around desks and over one chair in my attempt to reach it.
I felt like O. J. Simpson running through the airport, or maybe from a murder scene on Bundy Drive. I caught the phone mid-ring and breathlessly blurted my name. The caller promptly hung up.
Rather than stand there and agonize over what I may have missed, I punched out the number for the main switchboard at the FBI and asked for the office of Assistant Director Kent Drinker. Some, or even most, reporters would spend the better part of a full day preparing just the right questions and practicing the best tone to strike in this interview. I didn't even have anything formed in my mind. I just knew I was curious and angry, and that combination usually worked better for me than any other.
When Drinker came on the line, I said, "Sir, I'm going with a story tomorrow detailing the highly unusual fact that you paid a personal call on one of the nation's leading militia leaders a week before the assassination attempt on President Hutchins. I was hoping, for your sake more than mine, that you would see your way to providing me with some sort of rationale for your visit."
Well, that sounded pretty damned good to me, but probably less so to Drinker. All I heard on the other end was dead air, then some heavy breathing. I had half a mind to say, "Hello? Anyone home?" but wisely and successfully suppressed that urge.
Finally, he spoke. "I don't know where you could have gotten this, but you have wrong information."
"Well, if it is, then I'll run a correction. But I don't think that's going to happen. I have it solidly, reliably, and on the record that you were up at Freedom Lake the week before the assassination attempt.
If you want to deny it or dispute it, you do so at your own peril."
Federal agents in general, and assistant FBI directors specifically, are not accustomed to being addressed quite like this. No, they're used to being the ones in control, calling the shots, making others sweat. That partly explained the enjoyment I was deriving from this call. The fact I was in the right explained the rest of my good mood.
During the silence that followed, I played out my vague theories. I believed that Drinker and Nathaniel had met. If they had met, it had to have been for a reason, and I had the nagging suspicion it involved the ease with which Nathaniel had offered me the details on the Wyoming militia, and the willingness of Drinker to confirm the story. If this were indeed true, I didn't know why. But what I did know, and all that mattered in giving me the upper hand in this discussion, was that a federal agent meeting with a militia leader a week or so before an assassination attempt made for significant news, whether I knew the reason or not. In the newspaper business, that's what's known as leverage.
Drinker said, "Can we talk off the record?"
Playing hardball, I replied, "No. Not now. Not until I get some sort of on-the-record explanation."
That was met with more silence. Eventually Drinker said, "Well, then, maybe I'll just refer you to the bureau flack."
"Fine," I replied. "Either way, there's a story in tomorrow's paper about you flying out to Idaho two weeks ago. You can either enlighten me or ignore me. Your choice."
"If I tell you the truth, if that truth gets published in your paper, it puts someone's life in imminent danger. I don't want that on my head, and I don't think you want it on yours, either. We need to be off the record."
In the news media, there are four conditions of discussions between sources of information and the reporters who seek knowledge from them.
The first and most obvious is known as "on the record." It is also the best and most straightforward, meaning anything and everything that a given person tells you can be used in the newspaper, fully attributable to whoever said it. Unfortunately life, and especially the journalism that supposedly reflects it, isn't always so cut and dried. People might be fired for talking to reporters, or reviled, or even endangered, so all too often conversations between sources and reporters tend to be "on background." That means all the information is fully usable, attributable to some mutually negotiated title such as a "senior administration official" or a "ranking federal law enforcement officer." But the vague attribution not only masks the identity, it also shades the potential motives for spreading that information. Reporters have to beware, but often don't. The third condition is "deep background," which means a source will provide information to a reporter provided it is not attributable to anyone or anything at all. In this case, the reporter-or more often, a columnist-can use the information in an analysis as either opinion or fact. The fourth, and most extreme, is "off the record," which, in its purest form, means the source is providing the information only to give the reporter a better understanding of what is happening, but the information cannot be used in a story unless obtained elsewhere.
The problem with all this is that only the best reporters and most knowledgeable sources fully understand the intricacies of the ground rules. Most don't actually have a clue, and "off the record" too often means "on background" to the reporter or the source. Inevitably and invariably, people get burned, sources become irate, and inaccuracies end up in print.
Interesting gambit by him. I said, "All right. Tell me off the record, and we'll figure out afterward how to attribute it."
As if trying to get the words out before I changed my mind, he immediately said, "Daniel Nathaniel is a paid federal informant. I received a tip on an assassination conspiracy, and I went to him to try to measure its validity. We had worked together on other cases, and he's always proven helpful and reliable."
To say the least, I was stunned, though I tried not to show it. Here was a guy, Nathaniel, whose entire purpose in life was supposed to be rallying against the federal government he claimed to despise, and instead he was actually on the FBI payroll, squirreling away money made from informing on his militia brethren. And I thought I knew the guy.
In the verbal gap, Drinker said, "You see what I mean. You write this, Nathaniel's underlings kill him by tomorrow night."
That they would, but that wasn't my particular problem, or even my most significant concern. I asked, "So were the two of you on the level about this Wyoming militia leader, or was that a concocted story?"
"We believe it to be true, though obviously I don't have it hard enough to bring charges yet. But Nathaniel told me then what he seems to be telling you now. This is what he had heard."
I frantically tried making sense out of what he was saying, but trying to piece the information together felt like shuffling a deck of cards.
"So are you saying that you suspected an assassination attempt was coming before the president ever got shot?"
"Yes."
"And you couldn't do anything about it?"
"Well, we tried."
I said, "I'd like to put that part on background, that a federal informant-unnamed in print-confirmed your suspicions of a conspiracy."
He paused for a moment, then said, "Sounds like as reasonable a compromise as I can get."
I said, "Two more things. First, on the record. You're sure that corpse you have is of a guy named Tony Clawson?"
Sounding taken aback, he said, "We have no reason at this moment to think it's anyone different." Back in the Watergate investigation, that's what Washington Post editor Benjamin Bradlee called a nondenial denial. Interesting.
"Second, on background, are you guys investigating any connection between any Democratic campaign operatives and this assassination attempt?" I threw that out there bald, trying to get an answer equally as blunt.
"Look, we pursue lots of leads and head down many different avenues in an investigation as comprehensive as this," he said. "I'm not going to comment or even acknowledge every specific one."
I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, so I said, "Specifically I'm wondering about Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson."
"Not going there."
I said, "I'll be in touch."
He replied, "If I were you, I would do that. This case is breaking fast."
We hung up, and sitting at my desk with nothing to look at but the back of Julie Gershman's neck, I was left to wonder, breaking as in breaking news, or breaking as in breaking apart?
There is something intrinsically wonderful about the bar at Lespinasse, a French restaurant in the heart of downtown Washington. The polished mahogany walls soar perhaps thirty feet toward a frescoed ceiling.
Portraits of dead presidents gaze at waiters quietly shuffling across the thick floral carpet. Soft leather chairs and upholstered couches exude the aura of a corporate boardroom or a private men's club, which, according to some women activists, are one and the same.
If nothing else, it is a haven from the constant slights and indignities of official Washington, where a twenty-something receptionist for a freshman congressman will answer a call for the press secretary from the New York Times and ask impatiently, "And what is this regarding?"
Not here, not now, not when the nice members of the Lespinasse management are fetching upward of $6 for a cold beer, though they don't even carry Miller. For me, that was a small price to pay for such comfort and civility. For Peter Martin, guardian of the bureau budget, the costs here always seemed a bit excessive, though as with so many other finance-related matters, I largely ignored his protestations with no discernible penalty. Once, when I turned in an expense form for a $179 lunch for two here, he looked the bill over quizzically and asked,
"What, you break a window or something?"
The bar seemed particularly soothing this evening. At the very least, I was fairly confident no one would take a shot at me. So I ordered a Heineken and slumped deeply into a soft settee with my eyes closed and my feet up and thought of the frustrating afternoon I had just left behind. I had made calls to anyone I could reach in the realms of federal law enforcement and national politics, asking whether Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson were being investigated in connection with the assassination attempt. From everyone I asked, I got only incredulity. In fact, I suspected I was starting to sound pretty stupid, and wondered if I was being intentionally led astray by Powers in the house of mirrors that was this story.
When I opened my eyes, I found the alluring figure of Agent Samantha Stevens looming above me.
"My God," she said in the way of a greeting. "You don't look so great."
"That's a risky thing to say," I said. "I feel like a million bucks.
As a matter of fact, I've never felt better. I feel like I could go out and complete a triathlon right about now, which would make it my third this month."
She seemed unsure how to take this reaction, so I flashed her a sizable smile. "Long day," I added.
She looked typically beautiful, her face freshly washed and largely void of makeup, her jet black hair glowing in the soft light of the wall sconces, her short navy blue skirt revealing perfectly toned legs that seemed, as my friend Harry Putnam is fond of saying, to start on earth and ascend toward the heavens. She settled into a leather chair diagonally across from me. I was increasingly smitten by her, though I recognized the need to rein it in.
"I appreciate you meeting me on short notice," she said, speaking deliberately. "I know how busy you are."
I said, "You've piqued my curiosity. I've been racking my brain, wondering, did I miss something from the shooting scene, is there something I overlooked, is there something I heard or saw wrong?"
I looked at her expectantly, and she said, "Actually, it's not that at all." She paused, staring down at the drink that the waiter had just brought her, a glass of merlot, perhaps a whimsical one.
"I don't really know any journalists, professionally," she said. "I don't know if I'm supposed to do this, or if this is wrong, or what."
You have a crush, I said to myself. You've developed a crush on me, and you don't know how to tell me. Just let it out. You'll feel better. Just let it all go.
She said: "I wanted to ask you about that story you had in yesterday's paper that you ended up killing for the later editions."
Oh, well. She looked at me. I stayed quiet. She continued,
"Obviously, I've read your story inside and out, and there are a couple of things I don't quite understand, as in, A, how you got that information, and B, why it is that you decided it wasn't any good. I thought you might be able to share."
This was an easy one for me, and something of an unexpected gift at a time when I needed it most. "I love to share," I said. "It's one of the first things my mother and father taught me to do. But when I share, I usually expect, and get, something in return."
She took a sip of her wine, then absently smoothed out her skirt, looked me in the eye, and said, "Okay. Why don't we start with that story. I'm interested in what else you know about Wyoming."
"Big, beautiful state," I said. "And I love the Tetons. There's a nice hotel, the Jenny Lake Lodge, overlooking the mountains, with a terrific fixed price dinner every night."
She didn't even pretend to find humor. "The militia," she said.
It was a curious question, but I was doing my best to hide any look of surprise. "No way," I said. "Let's start with you, and what you might have for me."
"Why?" she asked. "I'm the one who called you."
"I don't trust you." There, I said it.
"You don't trust me?" she asked, taken aback.
"I don't trust anyone, not my sisters, not my editors, no one."
Quickly, I tried to break the mild tension that had formed. "Check that. I do trust my dog, but even that took me a couple of years."
She raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her chair. "What do you want to know from me?"
"We could start with the question of why you people couldn't prevent a presidential assassination attempt that you knew about in advance."
She remained silent, looking at me, waiting.
"Then we could take up the all-important question of the real identity of this would-be assassin, because you and I both know it's not this guy you call Tony Clawson."
Now her forehead was scrunched up in a look of confusion-whether feigned or not, I couldn't tell.
"The shooter's name is Tony Clawson. Case closed," she said snappily.
I shot back, "Read tomorrow's Record, then decide if you want to close that case so fast. Because you'll either learn something about your own investigation, or everyone else will learn something that you're trying to hide."
That, I quickly realized, was a pretty stern accusation, and I scanned for a chance to backtrack. Too late. Stevens's cheeks suddenly flared red, and her angular features for the briefest of moments appeared severe.
"I'm not hiding anything," she said, her voice almost seething. "I'm not covering anything up. I'm not even closing cases. I'm investigating an assassination attempt on the president of the United States-trying to find out about a crime that could have changed the direction of the free world."
Dramatic, yes, but probably right. "I'm sorry," I said. "I am not implying that you are. What I'm saying is, I have some serious questions. You don't seem inclined to provide answers. That's your prerogative. But still, you expect me to help your cause."
"My cause is to solve a major crime. I thought you might want to help," she said.
I said nothing in return. I wasn't really in the mood to deliver a lecture on the role of the press and so forth, which, in this case, seemed to involve making sure the FBI was doing its job and not pulling one over on the public.
She, in turn, hesitated, again smoothing out her skirt in what I assumed was a nervous habit picked up in some all-girl's school, or as we'd say now, all-women's, even if they were only sixteen or seventeen years old. All around us, the pace of the room had picked up ever so slightly, as a well-dressed clientele flowed in to chat about the upcoming election-Washington's version of a Super Bowl for the wing-tip shoes and wire-rimmed glasses set.
"I'll be straight with you," Stevens said, leaning closer so that the people around us couldn't hear. "I wasn't aware that the Wyoming angle was being treated quite this seriously within the bureau. I had never heard of Mr. Walbin before your ditched story."
Finally, something of significance-an FBI agent admitting to a reporter that she has not been fully apprised of the important details of her own investigation-a presidential assassination attempt, no less. I struggled to conceal my shock. Then, of course, I began wondering if I was being snookered, by Drinker or by Stevens.
"Are you aware of any sort of tip that the bureau had received prior to the assassination attempt?" I asked.
"No."
There was silence. We were leaning close, causing me to wonder what people around us might be thinking-that perhaps we were a couple having a serious conversation about our relationship, or discussing having children, or changing jobs, or matters of divorce. She seemed more vulnerable than I had seen her before, and, I sensed, more vulnerable than she liked.
She asked, "Why did you pull that story?"
"The honest truth is, I wasn't sure if it was true."
"How sure are you on the Wyoming information?"
I replied, "It's out there. It's in circulation. I keep hearing about it, and because I keep hearing about it, I have to run with something on it, because if I don't, someone else will, and I really hate the meaninglessness of second place in the news business."
She considered that for a moment, then said, "I'll be straight again.
I'm hoping we might form some sort of relationship based on our mutual needs. I've never done this with a reporter before. But I've never been in an investigation where crucial facts were withheld from me."
"Have you approached Drinker or your direct superiors?" I asked.
"No. Not until I know more. I'm not playing from a position of ignorance anymore."
I liked that, this lack of blind loyalty, these street smarts. I said,
"You should read tomorrow's Record carefully and tell me what you think."
"What do you have?"
I shook my head. "Can't," I said.
"I have some theories on this case," she said. She stared at me, her mouth slightly open as if not sure whether to elaborate.
"As in?"
"I'm going to pursue them on my own," she said. "At some point, we may be able to help each other."
I said, "Do those theories involve Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson?"
"No," she said, without even a flicker of hesitation.
Stevens took a sip of her wine, locked her gaze on me, and said, "Looks like I've given you more than you've given me."
I caught the waiter's eye as he walked by, thinking it might be time to get a check, get out while I was ahead, as Stevens was kind enough to point out. When he came to the table, Stevens quickly said, "Another glass of the merlot, please." I caught myself and added, "And another Heineken for me."
"So you've been a reporter your entire adult life?" she asked, displaying her knowledge of me and offering to change the tone of the conversation. I didn't say anything, so she added, "I'm tired, and you look like hell. Why don't we just have a drink?"
There's that Dean Martin thing again, but it wasn't a bad idea. We sipped our beverages, we traded small talk about the newspaper business and the FBI and growing up in rural Indiana, as she did, as compared to South Boston, as I did. She told me she liked my house. I ordered a $19 shrimp cocktail and a $22 cheese and fruit plate, and could just about hear Peter Martin asking sarcastically, "What's this, two dollars a grape?"
Outside, she offered to drop me in Georgetown on the way to her Arlington condominium. Outside my house, she asked, "Could I use your bathroom?"
In the foyer, she knelt down on the floor, skirt and all, to give Baker an enormous hug and a kiss on his fluffy ears, telling him he was a wonderful boy all the while. In his excitement, the poor dog seemed ready to have a heart attack at the prospect of any company at this hour of the evening, let alone female.
"Don't you need to use the bathroom?" I asked finally as she stroked Baker's head with no apparent inclination to move.
She laughed and said, "No. I was just looking for an excuse to say hello to your dog. I absolutely adore him. Sorry."
We both smiled over that, and the telephone rang. It was about ten-thirty, and as I looked at the phone with a mix of longing and fear, she looked at me, amused.
"I'll just let that kick over to my answering service," I said.
"Deja vu," she said with a mischievous grin. "Are you a character in an Anne Tyler novel or something? Why don't you pick up the telephone?
A hot woman? An anonymous source? Maybe the president of the United States leaking to you again?"
She walked toward the telephone as I tried not to panic. Eternity seemed to descend on this living room, at least insofar as this ringing phone was concerned. It seemed as if it would ring forever. At last, she reached over and picked it up herself, saying in a playful voice,
"Flynn residence, may I help you?"
Then she looked at me blankly and slowly put the phone back on the hook. "Hung up," she said. "I must have scared her off."