Anonymous Sources

by Mary Louise Kelly

  When I didn’t reply, he added, “Anyway, I’ve really got to run, okay?”

  “Listen to me,” I said finally, and my voice was shaking. “I don’t quite know what is happening. But something is wrong. Very wrong. I need to talk to Hyde. And to the police. In that order, I think.”

  “The police?”

  “I don’t have my cell phone anymore. Or my computer. Can you—can you get a message to Hyde? Tell him the interview with Lowell Carlyle might be about to go in a very different direction. Tell Hyde I need to see him, in person, tonight.”

  I hung up and sat staring at the phone. I was starting to get a bad feeling about why someone on that plane might have wanted me dead.

  LOWELL CARLYLE LOOKED JUST LIKE you would expect the president’s lawyer to look. Gray hair, gray suit. Patrician.

  He stood up from his desk to greet me, and as we shook hands, I could see the exhaustion sketched on his face. He sat down again heavily.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Carlyle.”

  He nodded. Even this small movement looked as if it caused him pain. “Thank you for your reporting, Miss James. It’s been . . . thorough. I wasn’t planning to give any interviews. But after the funeral yesterday, Anna and I—we felt it was time to do one. To share how we will remember Thom. The Chronicle is our hometown paper. And so it felt fitting. Thom grew up reading the Chronicle. Well, the sports pages anyway.” Lowell gave a small, sad smile.

  I nodded. “I gather he was quite an athlete, sir.”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat loudly. I thought I saw moisture in his eyes, and I looked away while he collected himself. “Yes, he was. That’s relevant here, actually. It’s what I want to talk about. Anna and I have decided to establish a scholarship in Thom’s memory. At Harvard. To honor and encourage student-athletes. When Thom was a boy . . .” And he was off, launching into a long story about Thom’s Little League triumphs.

  I scribbled down some notes and let him go on until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Mr. Carlyle, I—forgive me for jumping in. It’s just that I know your time is limited. And there are some other things I need to ask you about.”

  His jaw tightened, just for a moment. He was not a man accustomed to being interrupted. But he nodded and leaned back. “Go ahead.”

  “As far as I’ve been able to find out, the police are still trying to figure out how Thom died. I mean, why he fell from the bell tower. I know this is painful, but I wonder whether you’ve learned any more detail about what happened that night?”

  He shook his head. “I was going to ask you the same.”

  “Did your son ever mention a man—a man named Nadeem Siddiqui? They would have met in England.”

  He frowned. “No, not that I can recall. Why?”

  I took a deep breath. There was no going back now.

  I told Thom’s father about how Petronella had found Nadeem rummaging around in Thom’s room. Thom’s locked room, and after Thom had died. I told him that no one had seen Nadeem since then, that he seemed to have disappeared. I told him about the massive banana shipments. That the latest one had landed here in Washington yesterday.

  Lowell Carlyle listened to all this carefully.

  “Now, here’s where it gets weird,” I said.

  He shot me a look that suggested he thought we’d already crossed that threshold.

  “Please. Just give me two more minutes and then you can throw me out,” I pleaded. “A woman was killed today, and it is somehow connected to all this.”

  This seemed to get his attention. He put his left hand to his temple and started rubbing little circles.

  I kept going.

  I told him about Nadeem’s work at the nuclear lab in Pakistan. I told him how bananas would slip past a nuclear detector (I prayed Elias had his facts straight on this one). I told him about my odd encounter with Crispin Withington, and how he had warned me to back off. And finally I told the White House counsel about the redheaded woman on the plane today, the drop of blood on her neck, her pulseless wrist, how she’d been sitting in the seat assigned to me.

  Lowell Carlyle shot up in his chair. “Are you quite sure she was . . . dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you’ve given all this information to the police?”

  “I—er—no. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  His eyes opened wide. “What? Why?”

  “I came directly here from the airport. I wasn’t sure if I was still in danger—I mean, if whoever killed her would realize their mistake. That they’d gotten the wrong person. If they did get the wrong person . . .” I suddenly felt very stupid. “It would have taken so long to explain everything to the airport police. And I didn’t think I’d get another chance to speak with you if I didn’t show up this afternoon.”

  To my relief, he nodded. “It’s—quite a story, Miss James.” He sat appraising me thoughtfully.

  “You’re trying to figure out if I’m insane.”

  He was too polite to answer directly. “I’m trying to figure out how any of this might fit together. Or whether there might be reasonable explanations for most of what you’ve told me. The only thing clear to me is that if a woman really did die, and you were the last to see her alive, then you need to tell what you know to the police. Immediately. I’ll call the Secret Service in and they can help you sort it out.

  “As for the rest of it . . .” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long few days. I was planning to spend this time talking about my son. And instead—” He spread his hands. “I’m not sure what any of this has to do with Thom. Perhaps . . . perhaps you should speak with someone on the NSC. The National Security Council. While you’re here. You can tell them what you’ve told me, and they can pass it on to the appropriate channels. Yes, that might make the most sense.”

  He picked up the phone and began making arrangements. He looked even grayer and more tired than when I’d first sat down. He seemed a decent man. I wondered what his and his wife’s nights had been like, whether they’d slept since they’d gotten that terrible phone call.

  I know something about sleepless nights. About missing a child . . . Stop it. I dug my nails deep into my palms. That wasn’t the point right now.

  The point was I had stumbled onto something. I was sure of it. Whether Lowell Carlyle believed me or not, I wanted to find out what it was.

  35

  Exhaustion was setting in by the time I finished telling the police everything I knew about the red-haired woman. Mr. Carlyle’s phone call had almost instantly produced two Secret Service officers. They steered me into a small, plain room and asked me to wait. Eventually two other men appeared to question me—FBI, I think, although it wasn’t entirely clear. I went over what had happened on the plane, twice. I promised to make myself available for further questions. They refused to answer any of my questions—whether her body had been found, who she was, whether anyone had been arrested.

  Instead they showed me back into the main waiting room for the West Wing, where I’d started two hours before. The same receptionist was still on duty. Aides still scurried through, though it was now past seven o’clock.

  I closed my eyes, slumped in my chair, and let the jet lag wash over me. I was past caring who came to question me next. Then I heard a voice I recognized.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Hyde. I was so happy to see him I wanted to hug him.

  Instead I gave his wrist a squeeze. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Ms. James. Funny thing, that. Your boy wonder Mr. Thottrup tracked me down at almost the exact same moment as the National Security Council did. I had no idea you’ve been having so much fun. You can imagine how delighted I was”—he looked hard at me—“how absolutely delighted I was to get a call from an NSC spokesman, begging me to hold our story until we’d all had a chance to sit down and talk. Now, would you like
to fill me in on what story he’s talking about?”

  “Yes. Okay. I—”

  “Because, Ms. James, the last story I remember assigning you was to investigate the death of Thomas Carlyle. How, pray tell, has that led to the two of us sitting here waiting to see the deputy national security adviser for combating terrorism?”

  I blanched. No one had told me that was who I was waiting to see.

  “It’s just a small thing, but it is irksome to have to hear secondhand about my reporters getting mixed up in murder investigations. Or to learn that the president’s lawyers seem to know far more about what my reporters have been up to in the last twenty-four hours than I do. Or to find out that you’ve had Elias calling around the CIA and the State Department on your behalf . . .” Hyde’s voice remained ominously low during this monologue, but his face had turned purple.

  “Alex,” he finally spat. “Start talking and tell me everything. Quickly, before they call us in. I can’t protect you or the newspaper if I don’t have the facts.”

  AN HOUR LATER HYDE AND I were tucked into a corner table of the closest bar.

  From the beeline he made straight out from the West Wing gate, I guessed this wasn’t his first visit. He stalked across Lafayette Square toward an expensive-looking hotel, then down a set of narrow steps. A brass lantern lit up the name on the awning: OFF THE RECORD BAR. I glanced at Hyde and decided now might not be the best time to point out the irony. He had not spoken or looked at me since we’d left the White House.

  Hyde took the better seat and immediately ordered himself a bottle of Grgich Hills sauvignon blanc. He did not look inclined to share. I asked for my usual Hendrick’s and tonic. Silence hung between us.

  Not until the wine had arrived and Hyde had taken a long sip did he finally look up at me. “I want you to swear that you will never, never, never pull a stunt like this again.”

  “But I—”

  “Now.”

  I sighed. “I promise.”

  “Good.” He drained his glass and poured himself another. When he looked up again, his features had rearranged themselves into a relatively pleasant expression. “So what’s your lede?”

  “My lede?”

  “For the story you’re going to write. You seem convinced there’s a story here, although damned if I can figure out what it is.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring. Thanks a lot. How about . . .” I drummed my fingers on the table. “How about this? ‘A mysterious fruit delivery, a missing Pakistani scientist, and a dead Irish tourist all converged Wednesday to spark alarm at the highest echelons of Washington’s political establishment. . . .’ ”

  Hyde raised his hand to hide a smile. “Yes, that’s colorful. Captures the drama. But try again.”

  “Let’s see. Wait, I got it: ‘White House officials raced yesterday to stay ahead of a fast-moving situation that may—or may not—involve nuclear smuggling, international terrorism, and the death of a Harvard man, not to mention a beautiful but bitchy London heiress. . . .’ ”

  “Catchy. But aren’t you underselling the story now?”

  “Hyde, seriously”—I pouted—“I have no idea how to write the lede to a story when I have no idea what the story is. That’s the point. It’s all too convoluted.”

  He clicked his tongue in a scolding sound. “Good stories are always convoluted. If you sit around until they’re crystal clear and you know every goddamned detail, you’ll never write anything.”

  I nodded glumly. “I was hoping the NSC guy would have told us something. Anything. Anything that would help me figure out how all these crazy pieces fit together. If they even do.”

  “Well, he must think there’s something there. Senior administration officials, in my experience, aren’t prone to talking to people they think are wasting their time. He wanted to meet you. He must think you’re onto something.”

  “He wanted to meet me because Lowell Carlyle told him to,” I countered.

  “And I suspect the White House counsel is also not a man prone to wasting time,” Hyde said calmly. “You know my golden rule: just write what you know and how you know it. Do that, and do it again the next day, and then keep doing it every day until you get somewhere.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “You might also want to think about getting a good night’s sleep. And enough of that for now.” He slid my empty glass away from me to the far edge of the table. “I have the feeling tomorrow might shape up to be another challenging day.”

  Normally I would have bristled at the suggestion that I’d had enough to drink. Especially from a man who skipped right over the wines-by-the-glass list in favor of his own bottle. Tonight, though, I was too tired to protest. I also felt rumpled and smelly and desperately in need of a shower and fresh clothes. Then I remembered.

  “Oh, no,” I moaned. “My suitcase. I left it at the airport. All my clothes. I don’t even have a toothbrush.”

  “Where are you staying tonight?”

  “At Elias’s. In Georgetown.”

  “Well, hurry up then.” Hyde checked his watch. “The shops on M Street should still be open for another hour.”

  I hesitated. I felt nervous wandering around on my own. But perhaps the doorman here could hail me a taxi. I could hand the driver a twenty to wait at the curb on M Street and then deliver me straight to Elias’s door. Yes, that would work. I stood up and kissed Hyde’s cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

  He looked embarrassed. “Don’t be silly. Check in with me first thing in the morning.”

  “Right. Oh, and, Hyde? I didn’t forget.”

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “Your Burberry. But it was in my carry-on. The one that got nicked. Sorry.”

  He smiled. “That’s the least of your concerns, surely. I wouldn’t think— Wait, hang on. Did you say it was in your carry-on bag? Along with your laptop?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s brilliant,” he said, beaming. “The airline will have to compensate you for everything that went missing. I wouldn’t think they’d quibble, what with you already having to put up with the inconvenience of the passenger next to you getting murdered. No, they’ll want to just pay up and keep quiet that you were robbed on top of everything else. Splendid. A spot of good news in an otherwise rather wretched day.”

  I stared at him, astonished. The man was extraordinary.

  “Good night, Ms. James,” he said, as if this had been a perfectly normal evening out on the town with a colleague. As I left, he was pouring himself the last glass of wine.

  36

  Elias looked ready to pounce when I finally staggered into his apartment at half past ten that night.

  He lived on a surprisingly lovely block of Dumbarton Street, one of the posher addresses in Washington’s poshest neighborhood. In the cab up from M Street, I passed well-kept gardens, gas lanterns, and historical plaques. Through the windows I caught glimpses of antiques and trays of polished silver. Many of the parked cars were expensive and German. This was clearly not the studenty part of Georgetown.

  At the corner of Thirtieth Street we turned left. Elias rented the garden flat at number 3027. It was hard to pick out house numbers in the moonlight. At last I found the door and knocked. His was the last in a row of tall brick Victorian houses.

  “Nice place,” I said when he opened the door.

  “Ginger! Tell me everything,” he breathed, pulling me inside. “What the hell is going on?”

  I looked at him fondly. Elias isn’t a big guy, maybe not even as tall as me. Hence his nickname. He has shaggy, dark blond hair and a budding potbelly and looks permanently disheveled. He’s also maybe the friendliest, genuinely nicest person I’ve ever met. Reporters use different tactics to get sources to talk to them. Some flatter their sources; some try to intimidate them. I’ve seen male reporters play the old-boy-network card, going golfing with the people they want to talk to. Pretty females flirt. They won’t admit to it, but they do. In Elias’s case, I
think people tell him their secrets because he’s just so damn likable.

  I glanced around his apartment. No gleaming trays of silver here. Elias’s bike took up a quarter of the room we were standing in. Behind him stood a navy futon piled with copies of Sports Illustrated, the Economist, a Stanford sweatshirt, and an assortment of remote controls. “Just tell me you have a hot shower somewhere and a bed with marginally clean sheets waiting for me. Otherwise I may really lose the will to live.”

  “Yep. I can even dangle the prospect of leftovers from my Chinese take-out dinner. As soon as you tell me everything.”

  I reeled off the highlights of the last twenty-four hours. He stood gaping. I held up my hands before he could start firing questions.

  “I’m going to take a shower now. And then I’m going to eat your Chinese leftovers. And then I’m going to bed. Oh, and I need something to sleep in.”

  Twenty minutes later I was sitting at his kitchen table in the Stanford sweatshirt, scrubbed clean and wet hair dripping down my neck. I felt like a new woman. Shrimp in black-bean sauce had never tasted so good. Elias was raining questions down on me, most of which I couldn’t answer. Soon I was fading again, my eyelids starting to droop, when the kitchen phone rang.

  It was past eleven. Elias raised his eyebrows and answered.

  “Hi . . . . Yes . . . . She’s here . . . . Sure, hang on.” He passed me the phone. “The Silver Fox,” he mouthed.

  I raised my eyebrows back at Elias.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. James.” I heard the familiar voice. “We’ll need to look at getting you a new phone. And did you find somewhere to buy clothes?”

  I cocked my head to the side and considered this. Hyde Rawlins, the managing editor of the New England Chronicle, was sitting up late in his hotel room, fretting about the state of my wardrobe?

  “Yes,” I ventured. “I found a J.Crew on M Street that was still open. Why are you—”

  “Lovely. I’ll see you at the West Wing gate again at eight tomorrow morning. Be on time, please. They’re asking for a meeting at eight thirty, but I’m trying to push it to nine, in case Jill can join us.”