Come on, come on, he fretted, listening to the burring tone. Somebody answer. Through the glass he noticed that the four customers were sitting upright, staring at the TV screen. It was one of the old flat-screen models, not 3-D, and from this angle Lucas's view was of an elongated announcer, like somebody out of a Modigliani picture.
His attention zoomed back to the phone as the burring stopped.
"Hello? Hello? I called earlier. I was told to call back. Could I speak to-"
The name stuck in his throat like a peach stone. He found himself staring goggle-eyed at a face on the TV screen, a familiar face even at this sharp angle.
Lucas struggled with the door and forced it open.
. . apparently having fallen from his office window at the Pentagon. In a brief statement released a few minutes ago, an aide is quoted as saying that Defense Secretary Lebasse seemed perfectly all right during the morning, having participated in a full schedule of meetings, and that there was no reason to suppose . . ."
The voice in Lucas's ear said, "Are you there? Hello? Who is this?"
He listened stupidly to the voice and then put the receiver down and came out of the booth and walked the length of the bar to the door.
The barman called to him, and when Lucas didn't respond: "You ordered this beer, fella!"
Lucas walked along G Street in the direction of the White House, massing purple clouds above, oblivious to the large warm spots hitting his face. The threatened thunderstorm was nearly upon them.
His mind kept repeating numbly, Lebasse is dead. I have the dossier. Lebasse is dead. I have the dossier and Lebasse is dead. . . .
And then the thought that made him stop cold in his tracks, the rainwater coursing down his face and over his small compressed mouth with its neat gray moustache.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. What now?
Cheryl was lying full-length on the couch wearing a loose halter-neck dress, her brown arms and shoulders bare. They had eaten a pleasant dinner together. Chase felt warm and relaxed, and now she had to spoil it by badgering him.
"It was you, remember, who told me about the dioxin poisoning," Cheryl said, waving her wine glass at him. "You set the hare running and yet you don't want to do anything about it--" The wine spilled and she tossed back what was left in one gulp.
Chase put his coffee cup down and picked up his brandy glass. "What am I supposed to do about it? I agree that we know--or suspect --that JEG Chemicals is up to something. And you're right, a story like that is just what I'm looking for. After seven weeks all I've got is a hriefcaseful of background material. Worthy but dull. You don't have to convince me." He swirled the brandy and drank.
"So let's do it," Cheryl said, filling her glass.
"You keep telling me you're a science writer, not a journalist," Cheryl said, pointing an accusing finger.
"I am," Chase said with a sigh. "Which still won't get me into the JEG plant. They probably won't let
"They might."
"Who, for instance?"
"There are ways."
"What ways? You keep saying that. Don't be so damned infuriat-ing.
Cheryl lay back and gazed at the ceiling, a small smile on her lips. She was enjoying herself. Not just the teasing, but the company, too. Her social life had been nil since Frank had gone, if you discounted Gordon's pestering.
"Suppose you were an accredited member of the staff of the Scripps Marine Life Research Group."
"Well?" said Chase warily.
"You could fix an appointment. Pay a call and say you were interested in purchasing supplies. And then you'd have the chance of looking around the place." She raised her head to see his reaction and his expression made her stop short. "What is it?"
"Banting," Chase said.
"What?"
He'd forgotten Ivor Banting's connection with the JEG Corporation until just this minute. And Banting had been most accommodating to the U.S. military in getting the Russian scientist transferred to McMurdo Station. He told Cheryl about it and she said, "Astakhov, Boris's old colleague?''
Chase nodded. It seemed to him as though invisible strands were slowly tightening, being drawn together to form a noose of conspiracy.
Cheryl was right. The JEG plant at Bakersfield was a loose end, a stray thread that might unravel the tangle and lead to the truth.
He sipped his brandy and said, "I'll cable my editor in the morning. If I'm going to do this I'll need a few more days. How long will it take to set up?"
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
"A minute ago you thought it was a great idea."
