"Orders from Mr. Coal, I believe." Emil never stopped smiling.
"That's correct."
"I see. Mr. Mattiece prefers not to meet you. He wants you to talk to me."
Barr shook his head. Now, if push came to shove, if things got out of hand, then he would gladly talk to Emil if it was necessary. But for now, he would hold firm.
"I am not authorized to talk to anyone but Mr. Mattiece," Barr said properly.
The smile almost disappeared. Emil pointed beyond the pools and fountains to a large gazebo-shaped building with tall windows from floor to ceiling. Rows of perfectly manicured shrubs and flowers surrounded it. "Mr. Mattiece is in his gazebo. Follow me."
They left the sun room and walked slowly around a wading pool. Barr had a thick knot in his stomach, but he followed his little friend as if this was simply another day at the office. The sound of falling water echoed through the garden. A narrow boardwalk led to the gazebo. They stopped at the door.
"I'm afraid you must remove your shoes," Emil said with a smile. Emil was barefoot. Barr untied his shoes and placed them next to the door.
"Do not step on the towels," Emil said gravely.
"The towels?
Emil opened the door for Barr, who stepped in alone. The room was perfectly round, about fifty feet in diameter. There were three chairs and a sofa, all covered with white sheets. Thick cotton towels were on the floor in perfect little trails around the room. The sun shone brightly through skylights. A door opened, and Victor Mattiece emerged from a small room.
Barr froze and gawked at the man. He was thin and gaunt, with long gray hair and a dirty beard. He wore only a pair of white gym shorts, and walked carefully on the towels without looking at Barr.
"Sit over there," he said, pointing at a chair. "Don't step on the towels."
Barr avoided the towels and took his seat. Mattiece turned his back and faced the windows. His skin was leathery and dark bronze. His bare feet were lined with ugly veins. His toenails were long and yellow. He was crazy as hell.
"What do you want?" he asked quietly to the windows.
"The President sent me."
"He did not. Fletcher Coal sent you. I doubt if the President knows you're here."
Maybe he wasn't crazy. He spoke without moving a muscle in his body.
"Fletcher Coal is the President's chief of staff. He sent me."
"I know about Coal. And I know about you. And I know about your little Unit. Now, what do you want?"
"Information."
"Don't play games with me. What do you want?"
"Have you read the pelican brief?" Barr asked.
The frail body did not flinch. "Have you read it?"
"Yes," Barr answered quickly.
"Do you believe it to be true?"
"Perhaps. That's why I'm here."
"Why is Mr. Coal so concerned about the pelican brief?"
"Because a couple of reporters have wind of it. And if it's true, then we need to know immediately."
"Who are these reporters?"
"Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. He picked it up first, and he knows more than anyone. He's digging hard. Coal thinks he's about to run something."
"We can take care of him, can't we?" Mattiece said to the windows. "Who's the other one?"
"Rifkin with the Times."
Mattiece still had not moved an inch. Barr glanced around at the sheets and towels. Yes, he had to be crazy. The place was sanitized and smelled of rubbing alcohol. Maybe he was ill.
"Does Mr. Coal believe it to be true?"
"I don't know. He's very concerned about it. That's why I'm here, Mr. Mattiece. We have to know."
"What if it's true?"
"Then we have problems."
Mattiece finally moved. He shifted his weight to the right leg, and folded his arms across his narrow chest. But his eyes never moved. Sand dunes and sea oats were in the distance, but not the ocean.
"Do you know what I think?" he said quietly.
"What?"
"I think Coal is the problem. He gave the brief to too many people. He handed it to the CIA. He allowed you to see it. This really disturbs me."
Barr could think of no response. It was ludicrous to imply that Coal wanted to distribute the brief. The problem is you, Mattiece. You killed the justices. You panicked and killed Callahan. You're the greedy bastard who was not content with a mere fifty million.
Mattiece turned slowly and looked at Barr. The eyes were dark and red. He looked nothing like the photo with the Vice President, but that was seven years ago. He'd aged twenty years in the last seven, and perhaps gone off the deep end along the way.
"You clowns in Washington are to blame for this," he said, somewhat louder.
Barr could not look at him. "Is it true, Mr. Mattiece? That's all I want to know."
Behind Barr, a door opened without a sound. Larry, in his socks and avoiding the towels, eased forward two steps and stopped.
Mattiece walked on the towels to a glass door, and opened it. He looked outside and spoke softly. "Of course it's true." He walked through the door, and closed it slowly behind him. Barr watched as the idiot shuffled along a sidewalk toward the sand dunes.
"What now?" he thought. Perhaps Emil would come get him. Perhaps.
Larry inched forward with a rope, and Barr did not hear or feel anything until it was too late. Mattiece did not want blood in his gazebo, so Larry simply broke the neck and choked him until it was over.
He game plan called for her to be on this elevator at this point in the search, but she thought enough unexpected events had occurred to warrant a change in the game plan. He thought not. They had engaged in a healthy debate over this elevator ride, and here she was. He was right - this was the quickest route to Curtis Morgan. And she was right - it was a dangerous route to Curtis Morgan. But the other routes could be just as dangerous. The entire game plan was deadly.
She wore her only dress and her only pair of heels. Gray said she looked really nice, but that was to be expected. The elevator stopped on the ninth floor, and when she walked off it there was a pain in her stomach and she could barely breathe.
The receptionist was across a plush lobby. The name WHITE AND BLAZEVICH covered the wall behind her in thick, brass lettering. Her knees were weak, but she made it to the receptionist, who smiled properly. It was ten minutes before five.
"May I help you?" she asked. The nameplate proclaimed her to be Peggy Young.
"Yes," Darby managed, clearing her throat. "I have a five o'clock appointment with Curtis Morgan. My name is Dorothy Blythe."
The receptionist was stunned. Her mouth fell open, and she stared blankly at Darby, now Dorothy. She couldn't speak.
Darby's heart stopped. "Is something the matter?"
"Well, no. I'm sorry. Just a moment." Peggy Young stood quickly, and disappeared in a rush.
Run! Her heart pounded like a drum. Run! She tried to control her breathing, but she was battling hyperventilation. Her legs were rubbery. Run!
She looked around, trying to be nonchalant as if she was just another client waiting on her lawyer. Surely they wouldn't gun her down here in the lobby of a law office.
He came first, followed by the receptionist. He was about fifty with bushy gray hair and a terrible scowl. "Hi," he said, but only because he had to. "I'm Jarreld Schwabe, a partner here. You say you have an appointment with Curtis Morgan."
Keep it up. "Yes. At five. Is there a problem?"