"It was important. I'm leaving, okay?"
The door to 22 opened, and Linney looked at them.
"This your sister?" the guard demanded.
Darby pleaded with her eyes.
"Yeah, leave her alone," Linney said. "She's leaving."
She exhaled and smiled at Linney. "Mom will be up this weekend."
"Good," Linney said softly.
The guard backed off, and Darby almost ran to the double doors. Grantham was preaching to the administrator about the cost of health care. She walked quickly through the doors, into the lobby, and was almost to the front door when the administrator spoke to her.
"Miss! Oh, miss! Can I have your name?"
Darby was out the front door, headed for the car. Grantham shrugged at the administrator, and casually left the building. They jumped in, and sped away.
"Garcia's last name is Morgan. Linney recognized him immediately, but he had trouble with the name. First name starts with a C." She was digging through her notes from Martindale-Hubbell. "Said he works in oil and gas on the ninth floor."
Grantham was speeding away from Parklane. "Oil and gas!"
"That's what he said." She found it. "Curtis D. Morgan, oil and gas section, age twenty-nine. There's another Morgan in litigation, but he's a partner and, let's see, he's fifty-one."
"Garcia is Curtis Morgan," Gray said with relief. He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter till four. We'll have to hurry."
"I can't wait."
Rupert picked them up as they turned out of Parklane's driveway. The rented Pontiac was flying all over the street. He drove like an idiot just to keep up, then radioed ahead.
Matthew Barr had never experienced a speedboat before, and after five hours of a bone-jarring voyage through the ocean he was soaked and in pain. His body was numb, and when he saw land he said a prayer, the first in decades. Then he resumed his nonstop cursing of Fletcher Coal.
They docked at a small marina near a city that he believed to be Freeport. The captain had said something about Freeport to the man known as Larry when they left Florida. No other word was spoken during the ordeal. Larry's role in the journey was uncertain. He was at least six-six, with a neck as thick as a utility pole, and he did nothing but watch Barr, which was okay at first but after five hours became quite a nuisance.
They stood awkwardly when the boat stopped. Larry was the first one out, and he motioned for Barr to join him. Another large man was approaching on the pier, and together they escorted Barr to a waiting van. The van was suspiciously short of windows.
At this point, Barr preferred to say good-bye to his new pals, and simply disappear in the direction of Freeport. He'd catch a plane to D.C., and slap Coal the moment he saw his shining forehead. But he had to be cool. They wouldn't dare hurt him.
The van stopped moments later at a small airstrip, and Barr was escorted to a black Lear. He admired it briefly before following Larry up the steps. He was cool and relaxed - just another job. After all, he was at one time one of the best CIA agents in Europe. He was an ex-Marine. He could take care of himself.
He sat by himself in the cabin. The windows were covered, and this annoyed him. But he understood. Mr. Mattiece treasured his privacy, and Barr could certainly respect that. Larry and the other heavyweight were at the front of the cabin, flipping through magazines and completely ignoring him.
Thirty minutes after takeoff, the Lear began its descent, and Larry lumbered toward him.
"Put this on," he demanded as he handed over a thick, cloth blindfold. At this point, a rookie would panic. An amateur would start asking questions. But Barr had been blindfolded before, and while he was having serious doubts about this mission, he calmly took the blindfold and covered his eyes.
The man who removed the blindfold introduced himself as Emil, an assistant to Mr. Mattiece. He was a small, wiry type with dark hair and a thin mustache winding around the lip. He sat in a chair four feet away and lit a cigarette.
"Our people tell us you are legitimate, sort of," he said with a friendly smile. Barr looked around the room. There were no walls, only windows in small panes. The sun was bright and pierced his eyes. A plush garden surrounded a series of fountains and pools outside the room. They were in the rear of a very large house.
"I'm here on behalf of the President," Barr said.
"We believe you." Emil nodded. He was undoubtedly a Cajun.
"May I ask who you are?" Barr said.
"I'm Emil, and that's enough. Mr. Mattiece is not feeling well. Perhaps you should leave your message with me."
"I have orders to speak directly to him."
"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."