The President spoke first. He looked tired, East thought. It was such an early hour for him. "How many places got bombed?"
"Twenty here," Voyles answered. "Seventeen in Baltimore and around fifteen in Atlanta. It appears as though the assault was carefully coordinated because all the explosions happened at precisely 4 A.M."
Coal looked up from his memo. "Director, do you believe it's the Underground Army?"
"As of now they're the only ones claiming responsibility. It looks like some of their work. Could be." Voyles did not look at Coal when he spoke to him.
"So when do you start making arrests?" the President asked.
"At the precise moment we obtain probable cause, Mr. President. That's the law, you understand."
"I understand this outfit is your top suspect in the killings of Rosenberg and Jensen, and that you're certain it killed a federal trial judge in Texas, and it most likely bombed at least fifty-two smut houses last night. I don't understand why they're bombing and killing with immunity. Hell, Director, we're under siege."
Voyles' neck turned red, but he said nothing. He just looked away while the President glared at him.
K. O. Lewis cleared his throat. "Mr. President, if I may, we are not convinced the Underground Army was involved with the deaths of Rosenberg and Jensen. In fact, we have no evidence linking them. They are only one of a dozen suspects. As I've said before, the killings were remarkably clean, well organized, and very professional. Extremely professional."
Coal stepped forward. "What you're trying to say, Mr. Lewis, is that you have no idea who killed them, and you may never know."
"No, that's not what I'm saying. We'll find them, but it will take time."
"How much time?" asked the President. It was an obvious, sophomoric question with no good answer. East immediately disliked the President for asking it.
"Months," Lewis said.
"How many months?"
"Many months."
The President rolled his eyes and shook his head, then with great disgust stood and walked to the window. He spoke to the window. "I can't believe there's no relation between what happened last night and the dead judges. I don't know. Maybe I'm just paranoid."
Voyles shot a quick smirk at Lewis. Paranoid, insecure, clueless, dumb, out of touch. Voyles could think of many others.
The President continued, still pondering the window. "I just get nervous when assassins are loose around here and bombs are going off. Who can blame me? We haven't killed a President in over thirty years."
"Oh, I think you're safe, Mr. President," Voyles said with a trace of amusement. "The Secret Service has things under control."
"Great. Then why do I feel as though I'm in Beirut?" He was almost mumbling into the window.
Coal sensed the awkwardness and picked up a thick memo from the desk. He held it and spoke to Voyles, much like a professor lecturing to his class.
This is the short list of potential nominees to the Supreme Court. There are eight names, each with a biography. It was prepared by Justice. We started with twenty names, then the President, Attorney General Horton, and myself cut it to eight, none of whom have any idea they are being considered."
Voyles still looked away. The President slowly returned to his desk, and picked up his copy of the memo. Coal continued.
Some of these people are controversial, and if they are ultimately nominated we'll have a small war getting them approved by the Senate. We'd prefer not to start fighting now. This must be kept confidential."
Voyles suddenly turned and glared at Coal. "You're an idiot, Coal! We've done this before, and I can assure you when we start checking on these people the cat's out of the bag. You want a thorough background investigation, and yet you expect everyone contacted to keep quiet. It doesn't work that way, son."
Coal stepped closer to Voyles. His eyes were glowing. "You bust your ass to make sure these names are kept out of the papers until they're nominated. You make it work, Director. You plug the leaks and keep it out of the papers, understand?"
Voyles was on his feet, pointing at Coal. "Listen, asshole, you want them checked out, you do it yourself. Don't start giving me a bunch of boy scout orders."
Lewis stood between them, and the President stood behind his desk, and for a second or two nothing was said. Coal placed his memo on the desk and retreated a few steps, looking away. The President was now the peacemaker. "Sit down, Denton. Sit down."
Voyles returned to his seat while staring at Coal. The President smiled at Lewis and everyone took a seat. "We're all under a lot of pressure," the President said warmly.
Lewis spoke calmly. "We'll perform the routine investigations on your names, Mr. President, and it will be done in the strictest of confidence. You know, however, that we cannot control every person we talk to."
"Yes, Mr. Lewis, I know that. But I want extra caution. These men are young and will shape and reshape the Constitution long after I'm dead. They're staunchly conservative, and the press will eat them alive. They must be free from warts and skeletons in the closet. No dope smokers, or illegitimate children, or DUIs, or radical student activity, or divorces. Understand? No surprises."
"Yes, Mr. President. But we cannot guarantee total secrecy in our investigations."
"Just try, okay?"
"Yes, sir." Lewis handed the memo to Eric East.
"Is that all?" Voyles asked.
The President glanced at Coal, who was ignoring them all and standing before the window. "Yes, Denton, that's all. I'd like to have these names checked out in ten days. I want to move fast on this."
Voyles was standing. "You'll have it in ten days."
Callahan was irritated when he knocked on the door to Darby's apartment. He was quite perturbed and had a lot on his mind, a lot that he wanted to say, but he knew better than to start a fight because there was something he wanted much worse than to blow off a little steam. She had avoided him for four days now while she played detective and barricaded herself in the law library. She had skipped classes and failed to return his calls, and in general neglected him during his hour of crisis. But he knew when she opened the door he would smile and forget about being neglected.
He held a liter of wine and a real pizza from Mama Rosa's. It was after ten, Saturday night. He knocked again, and looked up and down the street at the neat duplexes and bungalows. The chain rattled from inside, and he instantly smiled. The neglect vanished.
"Who is it?" she asked through the chain.
"Thomas Callahan, remember? I'm at your door begging you to let me in so we can play and be friends again."
The door opened and Callahan stepped in. She took the wine and pecked him on the cheek. "Are we still buddies?" he asked.
"Yes, Thomas. I've been busy." He followed her through the cluttered den to the kitchen. A computer and an assortment of thick books covered the table.
"I called. Why didn't you call me back?"
"I've been out," she said, opening a drawer and removing a corkscrew.
"You've got a machine. I've been talking to it."
"Are you trying to fight, Thomas?"
He looked at her bare legs. "No! I swear I'm not mad. I promise. Please forgive me if I appear to be upset."
"Stop it."
"When can we go to bed?"
"Are you sleepy?"
"Anything but. Come on, Darby, it's been three nights."