Thursday, November 2
The dream was one of those hazy ones where the whole seems clearer than the sum of its parts. I remember realizing I was supposed to meet Katherine, but couldn't recall where or when or why. She wasn't at home and wasn't at work, and she didn't have her cell phone with her, so I sat at my desk in the bureau trying to figure out what time we said we would be getting together and where we were supposed to meet.
Then it struck me that maybe I couldn't reach her because she had gone to the hospital and had the baby. She hadn't called me because she wanted to surprise me with our new child. So maybe that's where we were supposed to gather, at Georgetown Hospital, in the maternity ward, to celebrate the most momentous day of our lives. So the real question was whether I should be angry at her for excluding me from our baby's birth or pleased that she was trying to make it a surprise.
Best I can remember, it was about here that the jagged sound smashed into my subconscious and stirred me into a state of semi-reality. At first I thought it was my alarm clock, but when I groped around my nightstand with a blind hand and shut it off, the sound kept firing away at my brain. Then I realized it was the telephone, and it occurred to me that Katherine might be calling to say she was dining with her sister and wanted to know if I would like to meet them for dessert. To say the least, I was confused. The bedroom was completely black and cool outside my comforter, and I glanced at the illuminated clock and saw it was four-thirty in the morning, which only added to the fog.
When finally I found the phone on my night table, the familiar, haunting voice on the other end knocked the last remnants of fantasy from my brain and brought me back to a reality I wasn't sure I liked.
"You're a hard man to reach, Mr. Flynn," the anonymous source said in that even, dignified voice that had echoed in my mind so many times over the last week.
My wife is dead, I thought, suddenly burdened anew with a sadness that I had shed for my dream. Before I could say anything to this voice, even extend a greeting, he kept talking.
"You must be careful not to be misled. You must realize, you are being fed lies, lies that mask important truths that will someday astound you. You must keep working, keep digging, and get at these truths."
The world, or at least this conversation, was becoming clearer to me as the cobwebs gave way to the importance of the moment. I had prepared for this call in excruciating detail, actually thought of little but, and I knew I couldn't lose the opportunity because I was tired and grieving for my wife.
"That wasn't you who wanted to meet me at the Newseum, right?" I asked.
There was a moment of silence on the other end, and when he spoke, he sounded uncharacteristically flustered, his voice taking on a tone I had not heard from him before. "The Newseum? No, I don't understand."
This verified what Havlicek and I believed all along: that someone was trying to help me, even while someone else was trying to kill me.
I asked, "So you're saying you didn't have a note delivered to me at a restaurant Saturday night asking to meet you at the Newseum?"
"No."
I asked, "Then who would try to kill me?"
"Mr. Flynn, given the sensitivity of the information involved, there are people who will go to extremes to make sure it does not find its way into the public realm. There are people who would kill rather than see you get to the bottom of this story. I must warn you that if you continue to accept my help and pursue these leads, you are in danger.
Imminent danger."
I said, somewhat less than politely, "You haven't given me any leads yet, only general guidance. I need specifics. If I'm going to be in danger, you might as well give me more help. It's not enough to encourage me. You know more than I do. You know more than you're saying. I need you to tell me what you know, or at least to guide me along so I can get there."
"That's fair," he said. He paused, and beside me, the dog, his head on the edge of a pillow and his body spread out on the bed like a person, rolled partially over to look at me, then closed his eyes again. I sat up in the dark on one elbow. The light from the telephone handset cast a small glow on my bed.
"I'm prepared to help you," he said. "I'm prepared to bring you to the core of this situation. But it's crucial for you to understand, as we get further along, as you begin to realize what has happened with this assassination attempt, your own life will be threatened anew.
Knowledge is power. That axiom is true. But in this case, knowledge is also danger."
Obviously my Deep Throat had a flair for the dramatic, and I wondered, given the tone of his voice and the perfect sentences he formed, whether he had resumed reading from some sort of script. If he thought he was scaring me, he thought wrong, but I sensed he understood this.
The two most intriguing things you can say to any reporter worth the ink in his pen is that he may have to go to jail if he doesn't give up his source, and that his life is in danger. Best as I could understand at this early hour, he was offering me some version of a twofer.
"I've already accepted the danger," I said, finding myself speaking as theatrically as the source. "What I want is to get to the bottom of this story."
There was another long pause, and I thought I detected the shuffle of paper. I could hear him breathing softly into the telephone.
Finally, he said, "You've been to Chelsea, Massachusetts."
It seemed more of a declaration than a question, though I wasn't really sure, so I said, "Yes, I've been to Chelsea." And indeed I had. It's a tiny city of less than two square miles just over the Mystic River from Boston, jammed with decrepit slums and abandoned storefronts. It was the birthplace of Horatio Alger, a fact that had provided hope to waves of immigrants from Italy, Poland, and Ireland. Now that hope had turned into little more than despair for the Jamaicans and Mexicans who found themselves not in a job but in a cycle of poverty, their only refuge taken in an occasional puff of crack cocaine.
"You should travel there," he said. "You should find out everything you can about a man named Curtis Black. Learn about him, and you will have dug to the core of this case."
Chelsea. Curtis Black. The president of the United goddamned States of America. Silently, my finely honed reporting instincts were engaged in a full-blown war with my reverent tone toward this source. The instincts won, and I asked: "Just a casual question: what the hell does a Curtis Black in Chelsea, Massachusetts, have to do with an assassination attempt on the most powerful figure in the world?"
I thought this might anger him. Instead, he barely missed a beat.
"Everything," he said. "I've given you all I can right now. It's up to you to find out why."
I asked, "Will you continue to help me?"
"As long as you're working this, I'll help you," he said.
"Will you ever reveal yourself to me?" I asked that question just out of curiosity. I assumed a quick "No," but instead, he paused again and said, "Perhaps someday, if I think it will help."
I wasn't ready for this conversation to end quite yet, though I feared he was. I asked, more lightly, "Have you seen today's Record?"
"No, I haven't."
"We have two stories," I said. "We have a story saying the trigger man cannot be the same man the feds say he is. Their ID, this guy named Tony Clawson, has eyes of a different color from the corpse.
"The second story says that the FBI had a prior tip, confirmed by a federal informant, that a Wyoming-based militia group was plotting an attack on the president."
There was another long pause. The house was totally silent, outside of Baker's soft, rhythmic dog snoring. The clock showed 4:40 A.m. now. I thought I heard my source breathing more heavily.
"You have it about half right," he said, his tone slightly different, a little higher, with an edge, like a rubber band stretched thin.
"You're going to want to find out about Curtis Black even faster now."
He hesitated, then, sounding more compassionate than businesslike, added, "Just take care of yourself. Be careful." Then he hung up.
At seven-thirty in the morning at the Washington bureau of a big-city newspaper, I should have been a good two hours out from seeing another human being. Except for the lawyers along K Street who bill by the hour and equate time in the most literal sense to money, this is a town slow to start at the beginning of the day. Congressional aides, federal officials, and news reporters don't typically arrive at work until just on the northern side of 10:00 A.m. Once they're there, they tend to work late into the evening, often until 9:00 P.m. or after, and invariably, once they are out, they will complain vociferously about the number of hours they dedicate to their job, because in a city that produces little more than monotonous debate-no automobiles, mutual funds, not even insurance-long hours are the closest thing anyone has to show for any sense of accomplishment.
On this morning, at the far end of the otherwise darkened newsroom, Steve Havlicek sat hunched under a single light at his computer terminal, staring intently at the words on his screen.
"One question," I said as I approached quietly and roused him from some trancelike state. "What the fuck are you doing here at this hour?"
"You know, that whole early-to-bed, early-to-rise thing," he said, jovial as ever. "Big story here. We've got work to do and no time to waste. Howaya, slugger?"
I just shook my head. I was holding a bag with two toasted bagels and offered him one. He didn't hesitate in accepting, and was already biting into the second half before I even got mine unwrapped.
"These stories are going to catch fire today," he said, his mouth full.
"I've already got calls from the producers of Imus and the Gordon Liddy shows. When the boys over at CNN and Fox get in, they'll be all over us. This is officially hell day at the FBI."
Though Havlicek had done the lion's share of the work on the story of Clawson, he had given me a co-byline, partly out of professional courtesy, partly out of a raw shrewdness that my name might inspire the anonymous source to provide more help. Either way, it was the generous act of a very secure reporter.
I said, "Yeah, we have to start figuring out where we take this story next, though I suspect the reaction will give us a wild ride for the morning. What do you think the FBI is going to do?"
"They can't very well deny it," Havlicek said, looking at some point beyond me as he thought. "My bet is that they hole up over there at the Hoover Building and don't say a thing, or they simply say the investigation is continuing down many avenues."
"And the White House? I mean, Hutchins has to say something about this. This was an attempt to kill the bastard. He's got to weigh in with something stronger than he has full faith in the FBI."
"This will be a great day," Havlicek said. "Strap yourself in."
"Well, I've got something that might make it even greater. I got a call this morning from the anonymous one. The bastard woke me up at home at four-thirty."
Havlicek said, "Jesus Christ, you're burying the lead again. What did he say?"
I told him. I wove together the conversation about Chelsea and this guy named Curtis Black, and the source's kind words about our work so far. I told him of the danger he said we would face, of the shocking truths waiting to be uncovered. Havlicek was sitting in his chair just staring at me, his mouth agape, with, actually, some chewed-up bagel inside.
"Mother of merciful God," he said finally. He looked off across the room at nothing in particular, as if he were trying to fashion some thoughts in the dark space of the empty newsroom. "This is either one elaborate hoax or one wonderful newspaper story we're onto. Right now, all we can do is assume and hope to holy hell it's real."
I said, "We're in a rush, but I think I ought to hold off on going up to Boston, just for the day. This town is going to flip over these stories, especially yours, and we both ought to be around to handle the fallout."
Almost as if the scene were scripted, at that precise moment, on the small color television on Havlicek's desk, a photo of the front page of the day's Boston Record appeared behind a rookie anchorman still assigned to the early-morning shift on CNN. Havlicek saw me riveted to the television and grabbed for the remote control to turn up the volume.
"— The newspaper reports that the FBI has misidentified the attempted assassin in the shooting of President Clayton Hutchins last week-"
Havlicek hit the mute button, and I heard the ringing sound of my telephone on the other side of the room. I did my usual sprint and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring, barking, "Flynn."
"Why the hell didn't you tell me you had these stories?" It was the rather angry voice of Samantha Stevens.
"Excuse me?" I said, buying time, unsure of the right answer.
"I spill my fucking guts to you last night about not knowing about Wyoming, and you can't even tell me what the rest of the fucking world is going to be told in twelve hours?"
"Hey there, easy does it," I said. "Last I checked, you're not my editor. You're not even a subscriber, not that I know of, anyway. And if you'll think back, I did tell you to read the Record today. I told you that Clawson wasn't who you people say he is. As I recall, you told me, "Case closed.""
She said, getting angrier, "Look, I'm in a position to help you, but unless I know it goes two ways, you can go fuck yourself. Good luck."
With that, she hung up. No matter. My telephone was ringing off the hook here. Next up was my close, personal friend Ron Hancock of the FBI.
"Well, you've stirred up quite a hornet's nest," he said, flat, always flat, regardless of the words.
"Go ahead," I told him.
"The director has his entire top staff in his office now. There's so much chatter between here and the White House this morning that they might as well just hook up two cans to a piece of string."
I said, "That's interesting, but what does it all mean? Who is this guy you have over in the morgue, why is the FBI fucking up a presidential assassination attempt, and is the FBI fucking up, or covering up?"
"To questions one through three, don't know," he said, and I believed him.
I asked, "Do you think they're going to admit they made a mistake?"
"No idea," he said. "Those decisions are made about ten pay grades above mine. And let me tell you one thing: the FBI doesn't admit it made mistakes. If they do admit they made a mistake, know that it wasn't a mistake. Take that to the bank."
He paused, then added, "I wanted to ask you, you have anything else coming? Anything else I should know about as I work this from within?"
"Shot our load today," I said. "But I suspect there's a lot more work to do. I'll be in touch."
I hung up just in time to pick up another call.
"Sorry," Samantha Stevens said, sounding anything but. "I dropped the phone before."
"Right onto the cradle?" I asked.
"Look," she said. "I still think we can help each other. Let's keep our options open."
"Deal."
"Good. I have to go. All hell is breaking loose over here, thank you very much. I'll talk to you later."
When I turned around, Peter Martin was standing by my desk, almost levitating, he was so overjoyed, reading the latest wire service dispatch that recounted salient facts from the stories, with full attribution to the Boston Record. Thus far, no one, not the wires, not the networks, was able to obtain the photographs and autopsy reports that Havlicek had used to put our story together, so they had to repeatedly attribute all the information to the Record.
"We have this city by the balls today," Martin said, making a little vise grip with his chalky palm that made me flinch back ever so slightly.
I didn't engage. It was time for me to fill him in. "We have to talk," I said. "We have to talk about an anonymous source and a guy named Curtis Black."
He said, "The fuck are you talking about? We have a day of follows here on what may be the most important couple of stories this newspaper has ever broken."
"Let's go into your office," I said.
And we did. And after I was done with all the sordid details, from the first calls in the hospital to the uncertain encounter at the Newseum to the note on the airplane to the telephone tip in the dark of that very morning, Martin looked a shade lighter than Casper the ghost, only not as friendly. As I sat in one of his leather club chairs in front of his coffee table with my legs crossed and the weight of my upper body resting on one elbow, he paced around the office, silently, pushing his hair around so that it flew up at odd angles. At one point, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, throwing a few in his mouth without the benefit of water, as if they were Good 'n' Plenties.
He said, "I understand why you didn't, and I am not going to hold it against you, but I wish you had told me earlier."
I nodded.
He said, "Tell me your gut feeling. Is this guy on the level?"
"Well, he had the Clawson part right at the same time Havlicek was getting it. He's sure urgent about all this. He sounds educated.
He's not spinning crazy conspiracy theories. He is going to considerable expense to make sure we take him seriously. I really don't know enough to draw a judgment, but I know just enough to know that we have to keep playing his game, or we're going to regret it for the rest of our careers."
"Yeah, you're right," Martin said, collapsing onto his couch, fading into the soft pillows.
"And what about this Graham and Wilkerson tip?" Martin asked.
"Been pursuing it, but I've gotten nothing back. Nothing. I just don't see it being true, or someone, somewhere would have given me a wink or a nod."
We both fell quiet for a moment, until he said, "Does this shooting ultimately win the election for Hutchins?"
While I considered an answer, he provided one of his own. "It seems like Hutchins has gotten a modest boost over this whole thing, but maybe not as good a boost as they expected. The public really doesn't seem to know what to make of all this confusion over the investigation.
They've edged toward Hutchins in the polls, but it's been anything but decisive. I bet it's driving the White House crazy."
I nodded and said, "Yeah, I think you're about right. After the shooting, I know I thought Hutchins would jump ahead, especially with that Reaganesque quote that the ambulance driver remembered, though wrongly. The White House thought the same thing. And now, I don't know. I can't get my mind around how this is playing out, or even if the election had something to do with the assassination attempt."
"I suspect we'll find that out soon enough," Martin said. "I want you to hang in here today, mop up with Havlicek, and late tonight or tomorrow, you get on up to Chelsea and work like a tyrant on this guy Black. I have a hunch we'll know whether this information is any good in the next days or so."
I said, "Sounds like a plan." At least, it was the closest thing I had to one in this topsy-turvey thing we call life.