The anonymous editors had been faxing copies to Clay’s office from the beginning, but Miss Glick had trashed them. Several of the Yale boys also received faxes, and they too protected their boss. Oscar brought in the latest edition and tossed it on Clay’s desk. “Just so you’ll know,” he said. The current edition was a reproduction of the story in the Press.

“Any idea who’s behind this?” Clay asked.

“No. They’re faxed around the city, sort of like a chain letter.”

“Don’t these people have better things to do?”

“I guess not. Don’t worry about it, Clay. It’s always been lonely at the top.”

“So I have my own personal newsletter. My, my, eighteen months ago no one knew my name.”

There was a commotion outside—sharp, angry voices. Clay and Oscar ran from his office into the hallway where the security guard was scuffling with a very disturbed gentleman. Associates and secretaries were entering the picture.

“Where is Clay Carter!” the man yelled.

“Here!” Clay yelled back and walked up to him. “What do you want?”

The man was suddenly still, though the guard kept his grip. Ed Wyatt and another associate moved close to him. “I’m one of your clients,” the man said, breathing heavily. “Let go of me,” he snapped and shook free from the guard.

“Leave him alone,” Clay said.

“I’d like a conference with my attorney,” the man said.

“This is not the way to schedule one,” Clay shot back, very coolly. He was being watched by his employees.

“Yeah, well, I tried the other way, but all the lines are busy. You screwed us out of a good settlement with the cement company. We want to know why. Not enough money for you?”

“I guess you believe everything you read in the newspapers,” Clay said.

“I believe we got screwed by our own lawyer. And we’re not taking it without a fight.”

“You folks need to relax and stop reading the papers. We’re still working on the settlement.” It was a lie, but one with good intentions. The rebellion needed to be quashed, at least there in the office.

“Cut your fees and get us some money,” the man snarled. “And that’s coming from your clients.”

“I’ll get you a settlement,” Clay said with a fake smile. “Just relax.”

“Otherwise, we’re going to the bar association.”

“Keep your cool.”

The man backed away, then turned and left the suite.

“Back to work everybody,” Clay said, clapping his hands together as if everybody had plenty of work to do.

Rebecca arrived an hour later, a random visitor from the street. She stepped into the JCC suite and gave a note to the receptionist. “Please give that to Mr. Carter,” she said. “It’s very important.”

The receptionist glanced at the security guard, who was on high alert, and it took several seconds to determine that the attractive young lady was probably not a threat. “I’m an old friend,” Rebecca said.

Whatever she was, she managed to fetch Mr. Carter out of the back faster than anyone in the short history of the firm. They sat in the corner of his office; Rebecca on the sofa, Clay in a chair pulled as close as possible. For a long time nothing was said. Clay was too excited to utter a coherent sentence. Her presence could mean a hundred different things, none of them bad.

He wanted to lunge at her, to feel her body again, to smell the perfume on her neck, to run his hands along her legs. Nothing had changed—same hair style, same makeup, same lipstick, same bracelet.

“You’re staring at my legs,” she finally said.

“Yes I am.”

“Clay, are you okay? There’s so much bad press right now.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“Yes. I’m concerned.”

“To be concerned means you still care about me.”

“I do.”

“So you haven’t forgotten about me?”

“No, I have not. I’m sort of sidetracked right now, with the marriage and all, but I still think about you.” “All the time?” “Yes, more and more.” Clay closed his eyes and placed a hand on her knee, one that she immediately removed and flung away. “I am married, Clay.” “Then let’s commit adultery.” “No.” “Sidetracked? Sounds like it’s temporary. What’s going on, Rebecca?”

“I’m not here to talk about my marriage. I was in the neighborhood, thought about you, and just sort of popped in.”

“Like a lost dog? I don’t believe that.”

“You shouldn’t. How’s your bimbo?”

“She’s here and there. It’s just an arrangement.”

Rebecca mulled this over, obviously unhappy with the arrangement. Okay for her to marry someone else, but she didn’t like the idea of Clay hooking up with anyone. “How’s the worm?” Clay asked. “He’s okay.” “That’s a ringing endorsement from the new wife. Just okay?” “We get along.” “Married less than a year and that’s the best you can do? You get along?” “Yes.”

“You’re not giving him sex, are you?”

“We’re married.”

“But he’s such a little twerp. I saw you dancing at your reception and I wanted to vomit. Tell me he’s lousy in bed.” “He’s lousy in bed. What about the bimbo?” “She likes girls.” They both laughed, and for a long time. And then they were silent again, because there was so much to say. She recrossed her legs while Clay watched closely. He could almost touch them.

“Are you going to survive?” she asked.

“Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about us.”

“I’m not going to have an affair,” she said.

“But you’re thinking about one, aren’t you?”

“No, but I know you are.”

“But it would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, and it wouldn’t. I’m not going to live like that.”

“I’m not either, Rebecca. I’m not sharing. I once had all of you, and I let you get away. I’ll wait until you’re single again. But would you hurry, dammit?”

“That might not happen, Clay.”

“Yes it will.”

36

With Ridley in bed beside him, Clay spent the night dreaming of Rebecca. He slept off and on, always waking up with a goofy smile on his face. All smiles vanished, though, when the phone rang just after 5 A.M. He answered it in the bedroom, then switched to a phone in his study.

It was Mel Snelling, a college roommate, now a physician in Baltimore. “We gotta talk, pal,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

“All right,” Clay said, his knees buckling.

“Ten A.M., in front of the Lincoln Memorial.”

“I can do that.”

“And there’s a good chance someone will be following me,” he said, then his line went dead. Dr. Snelling had reviewed the stolen Dyloft research for Clay, as a favor. Now the Feds had found him.

For the first time, Clay had the wild thought of just simply running. Wire what was left of the money to some banana republic, skip town, grow a beard, disappear. And, of course, take Rebecca with him.

Her mother would find them before the Feds.

He made coffee and took a long shower. He dressed in jeans, and would have said good-bye to Ridley but she hadn’t moved.

There was a very good chance Mel would be wired.

Since the FBI had found him, they would try their customary bag of dirty tricks. They would threaten to indict him too if he refused to snitch on his friend. They would harass him with visits, phone calls, surveillance. They would pressure him to put on a wire and lay the trap for Clay.

Zack Battle was out of town, so Clay was on his own. He arrived at the Lincoln Memorial at nine-twenty and mixed with the few tourists who were there. A few minutes later, Mel appeared, which immediately struck Clay as odd. Why would he get there half an hour before their meeting? Was the ambush being organized? Were Agents Spooner and Lohse close by with mikes and cameras and guns? One look at Mel’s face and Clay knew that the news was bad.

They shook hands, said their hellos, tried to be cordial. Clay suspected that every word was being recorded. It was early September, the air chilly but not cold; Mel, however, was bundled up as if snow was expected. There could be cameras under all that garb. “Let’s go for a walk,” Clay said, sort of pointing down The Mall toward the Washington Monument.