"You should travel there," he said. "You should find out everything you can about a man named Curtis Black. Learn about him, and you will have dug to the core of this case."
Chelsea. Curtis Black. The president of the United goddamned States of America. Silently, my finely honed reporting instincts were engaged in a full-blown war with my reverent tone toward this source. The instincts won, and I asked: "Just a casual question: what the hell does a Curtis Black in Chelsea, Massachusetts, have to do with an assassination attempt on the most powerful figure in the world?"
I thought this might anger him. Instead, he barely missed a beat.
"Everything," he said. "I've given you all I can right now. It's up to you to find out why."
I asked, "Will you continue to help me?"
"As long as you're working this, I'll help you," he said.
"Will you ever reveal yourself to me?" I asked that question just out of curiosity. I assumed a quick "No," but instead, he paused again and said, "Perhaps someday, if I think it will help."
I wasn't ready for this conversation to end quite yet, though I feared he was. I asked, more lightly, "Have you seen today's Record?"
"No, I haven't."
"We have two stories," I said. "We have a story saying the trigger man cannot be the same man the feds say he is. Their ID, this guy named Tony Clawson, has eyes of a different color from the corpse.
"The second story says that the FBI had a prior tip, confirmed by a federal informant, that a Wyoming-based militia group was plotting an attack on the president."
There was another long pause. The house was totally silent, outside of Baker's soft, rhythmic dog snoring. The clock showed 4:40 A.m. now. I thought I heard my source breathing more heavily.
"You have it about half right," he said, his tone slightly different, a little higher, with an edge, like a rubber band stretched thin.
"You're going to want to find out about Curtis Black even faster now."
He hesitated, then, sounding more compassionate than businesslike, added, "Just take care of yourself. Be careful." Then he hung up.
At seven-thirty in the morning at the Washington bureau of a big-city newspaper, I should have been a good two hours out from seeing another human being. Except for the lawyers along K Street who bill by the hour and equate time in the most literal sense to money, this is a town slow to start at the beginning of the day. Congressional aides, federal officials, and news reporters don't typically arrive at work until just on the northern side of 10:00 A.m. Once they're there, they tend to work late into the evening, often until 9:00 P.m. or after, and invariably, once they are out, they will complain vociferously about the number of hours they dedicate to their job, because in a city that produces little more than monotonous debate-no automobiles, mutual funds, not even insurance-long hours are the closest thing anyone has to show for any sense of accomplishment.
On this morning, at the far end of the otherwise darkened newsroom, Steve Havlicek sat hunched under a single light at his computer terminal, staring intently at the words on his screen.
"One question," I said as I approached quietly and roused him from some trancelike state. "What the fuck are you doing here at this hour?"
"You know, that whole early-to-bed, early-to-rise thing," he said, jovial as ever. "Big story here. We've got work to do and no time to waste. Howaya, slugger?"
I just shook my head. I was holding a bag with two toasted bagels and offered him one. He didn't hesitate in accepting, and was already biting into the second half before I even got mine unwrapped.
"These stories are going to catch fire today," he said, his mouth full.
"I've already got calls from the producers of Imus and the Gordon Liddy shows. When the boys over at CNN and Fox get in, they'll be all over us. This is officially hell day at the FBI."
Though Havlicek had done the lion's share of the work on the story of Clawson, he had given me a co-byline, partly out of professional courtesy, partly out of a raw shrewdness that my name might inspire the anonymous source to provide more help. Either way, it was the generous act of a very secure reporter.
I said, "Yeah, we have to start figuring out where we take this story next, though I suspect the reaction will give us a wild ride for the morning. What do you think the FBI is going to do?"
"They can't very well deny it," Havlicek said, looking at some point beyond me as he thought. "My bet is that they hole up over there at the Hoover Building and don't say a thing, or they simply say the investigation is continuing down many avenues."
"And the White House? I mean, Hutchins has to say something about this. This was an attempt to kill the bastard. He's got to weigh in with something stronger than he has full faith in the FBI."
"This will be a great day," Havlicek said. "Strap yourself in."
"Well, I've got something that might make it even greater. I got a call this morning from the anonymous one. The bastard woke me up at home at four-thirty."
Havlicek said, "Jesus Christ, you're burying the lead again. What did he say?"
I told him. I wove together the conversation about Chelsea and this guy named Curtis Black, and the source's kind words about our work so far. I told him of the danger he said we would face, of the shocking truths waiting to be uncovered. Havlicek was sitting in his chair just staring at me, his mouth agape, with, actually, some chewed-up bagel inside.
"Mother of merciful God," he said finally. He looked off across the room at nothing in particular, as if he were trying to fashion some thoughts in the dark space of the empty newsroom. "This is either one elaborate hoax or one wonderful newspaper story we're onto. Right now, all we can do is assume and hope to holy hell it's real."
I said, "We're in a rush, but I think I ought to hold off on going up to Boston, just for the day. This town is going to flip over these stories, especially yours, and we both ought to be around to handle the fallout."
Almost as if the scene were scripted, at that precise moment, on the small color television on Havlicek's desk, a photo of the front page of the day's Boston Record appeared behind a rookie anchorman still assigned to the early-morning shift on CNN. Havlicek saw me riveted to the television and grabbed for the remote control to turn up the volume.
"— The newspaper reports that the FBI has misidentified the attempted assassin in the shooting of President Clayton Hutchins last week-"
Havlicek hit the mute button, and I heard the ringing sound of my telephone on the other side of the room. I did my usual sprint and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring, barking, "Flynn."
"Why the hell didn't you tell me you had these stories?" It was the rather angry voice of Samantha Stevens.
"Excuse me?" I said, buying time, unsure of the right answer.
"I spill my fucking guts to you last night about not knowing about Wyoming, and you can't even tell me what the rest of the fucking world is going to be told in twelve hours?"
"Hey there, easy does it," I said. "Last I checked, you're not my editor. You're not even a subscriber, not that I know of, anyway. And if you'll think back, I did tell you to read the Record today. I told you that Clawson wasn't who you people say he is. As I recall, you told me, "Case closed.""
She said, getting angrier, "Look, I'm in a position to help you, but unless I know it goes two ways, you can go fuck yourself. Good luck."
With that, she hung up. No matter. My telephone was ringing off the hook here. Next up was my close, personal friend Ron Hancock of the FBI.