K. O. Lewis placed a four-inch stack of the latest on the table.
"Anything new?" Coal asked.
"Maybe. The French authorities were routinely reviewing footage taken by the security cameras at the Paris airport, and they thought they recognized a face. They checked it against two other cameras in the concourse, different angles, then reported to Interpol. The face is disguised, but Interpol believes it is Khamel, the terrorist. I'm sure you've heard of - "
"I have."
"They've studied the footage at length, and are almost certain he exited a plane that arrived nonstop from Dulles last Wednesday, about ten hours after Jensen was found."
"The Concorde?"
"No, United. Based on the time and the locations of the cameras, they have ways of determining the gates and flights."
"And Interpol contacted the CIA?"
"Yes. They talked to Gminski around one this afternoon."
Coal's face registered nothing. "How certain are they?"
"Eighty percent. He's a master of disguise, and it would be a bit unusual for him to travel in such a manner. So there's room for doubt. We've got photos and a summary for the President's review. Frankly, I've studied the pictures, and I can't tell anything. But Interpol knows him."
"He hasn't been willingly photographed in years, has he?"
"Not that we know of. And rumor has it he goes under the knife and gets a new face every two or three years."
Coal pondered this for a second. "Okay. What if it's Khamel, and what if he was involved in the killings? What does it mean?"
"It means we'll never find him. There are at least nine countries, including Israel, actively stalking him right now. It means he was paid a bunch of money by someone to use his talents here. We've said all along the killer or killers were professionals who were gone before the bodies were cold."
"So it means little."
"You could say that."
"Fine. What else do you have?"
Lewis glanced at Eric East. "Well, we have the usual daily summary."
"They've been rather dry as of late."
Chapter Eight
"Yes, they have. We have three hundred and eighty agents working twelve hours a day. Yesterday they interviewed one hundred and sixty people in thirty states. We have - " Coal held up his hand. "Save it. I'll read the summary. It seems safe to say there is nothing new."
"Maybe a small new wrinkle." Lewis looked at Eric East, who was holding a copy of the brief.
"What is it?" Coal asked.
East shifted uncomfortably. The brief had been passed upward all day until Voyles read it and liked it. He viewed it as a long shot, unworthy of serious attention, but the brief mentioned the President, and he loved the idea of making Coal and his boss sweat. He instructed Lewis and East to deliver the brief to Coal, and to treat it as an important theory the Bureau was taking seriously. For the first time in a week, Voyles had smiled when he talked of the idiots in the Oval Office reading this little brief and running for cover. Play it up, Voyles said. Tell them we intend to pursue with twenty agents.
"It's a theory that has surfaced in the last twenty-four hours, and Director Voyles is quite intrigued by it. He's afraid it could be damaging to the President."
Coal was stone-faced, never flinching. "How's that?"
East placed the brief on the table. "It's all here in this report."
Coal glanced at it, then studied East. "Fine. I'll read it later. Is that all?"
Lewis stood and buttoned his jacket. "Yes, we'll be going."
Coal followed them to the door.
There was no fanfare when Air Force One landed at Andrews a few minutes after ten. The Queen was off raising money, and no friends or family greeted the President as he bounced off the plane and darted into his limousine. Coal was waiting. The President sunk low in the seat. "I didn't expect you," he said.
"I'm sorry. We need to talk." The limo sped away toward the White House.
"It's late and I'm tired."
"How was the hurricane?"
"Impressive. It blew away a million shacks and cardboard huts, and now we'll rush down with a couple of billion and build new homes and power plants. They need a good hurricane every five years."
"I've got the disaster declaration ready."
"Okay. What's so important?"
Coal handed over a copy of what was now known as the pelican brief.
"I don't want to read," said the President. "Just tell me about it."
"Voyles and his motley crew have stumbled across a suspect that no one has mentioned until now. A most obscure, unlikely suspect. An eager-beaver law student at Tulane wrote this damned thing, and it somehow made its way to Voyles, who read it and decided it had merit. Keep in mind, they are desperate for suspects. The theory is so farfetched it's incredible, and on its face it doesn't worry me. But Voyles worries me. He's decided he must pursue with enthusiasm, and the press is watching every move he makes. There could be leaks."
"We can't control his investigation."
"We can manipulate it. Gminski is waiting at the White House, and - "
"Gminski!"
"Relax, Chief. I personally handed him a copy of this three hours ago, and swore him to secrecy. He may be incompetent, but he can keep a secret. I trust him much more than Voyles."
"I don't trust either one of them."
Coal liked to hear this. He wanted the President to trust no one but him. "I think you should ask the CIA to immediately investigate this. I would like to know everything before Voyles starts digging. Neither will find anything, but if we know more than Voyles, you can convince him to back off. It makes sense, Chief."
The President was frustrated. "It's domestic. CIA has no business snooping around. It's probably illegal."
"It is illegal, technically. But Gminski will do it for you, and he can do it quickly, secretly, and more thoroughly than the FBI."
"It's illegal."
"It's been done before, Chief, many times."
The President watched the traffic. His eyes were puffy and red, but not from fatigue. He had slept three hours on the plane. But he'd spent the day looking sad and concerned for the cameras, and it was hard to snap out of it.
He took the brief and tossed it on the empty seat next to him. "Is it someone we know?"
"Yes."
Because it is a city of the night, New Orleans wakes slowly. It's quiet until well after dawn, then shakes the cobwebs and eases into the morning. There's no early rush except on the corridors to and from the suburbs, and the busy streets downtown. This is the same for all cities. But in the French Quarter, the soul of New Orleans, the smell of last night's whiskey and jambalaya and blackened redfish lingers not far above the empty streets until the sun can be seen. An hour or two later, it is replaced with the aroma of French Market coffee and beignets, and around this time the sidewalks reluctantly show signs of life.
Darby curled herself in a chair on the small balcony, sipping coffee and waiting on the sun. Callahan was a few feet away, through the open french doors, still wrapped in sheets and dead to the world. There was a trace of a breeze, but the humidity would return by noon. She pulled his robe closer around her neck, and inhaled the richness of his cologne. She thought of her father, and his baggy cotton button-downs he allowed her to wear when she was a teenager. She would roll the sleeves tightly to her elbows and let the tails hang to her knees, then walk the malls with her friends, secure in her belief that no one was cooler. Her father was her friend. By the time she finished high school, she had the run of his closet, as long as things were washed and neatly pressed and put back on the hangers. She could still smell the Grey Flannel he splashed on his face every day.