Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [103]
“You’re aware, Mr. Potamos, that the claims you’ve made on TV are in direct conflict with the information that led to the attack today on the Jasper Project.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You cite information obtained from people you refuse to name, yet expect us to assign more weight to your sources than the ones we’ve relied upon.”
Potamos shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. “Look, Director, all I know is what I was told by people who are credible to me. I don’t know who gave you your information about that nut Jasper and his cult—an undercover agent, right?—but it seems to me that you should at least be open to the possibility you and your agents made a mistake out at that ranch. Now, with all due respect, sir, I have a story to write, and I know you have a lot of work to do to sort out this mess. Why don’t we just get on with our jobs and—”
“Mr. Potamos, I am asking you, as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, to withhold any stories or future TV appearances until I’m able to do exactly what you suggest, ‘sort out this mess.’ I assure you that if you agree to help me and the Bureau with this small favor, we’ll work closely with you to ensure that you receive exclusive information, before any of your colleagues do. You can build on your scoop with validated information from the Federal Bureau of Investigation itself.”
His expression said he’d just made an offer Potamos couldn’t refuse.
Potamos stood. “Thanks for the offer,” he said, “but I think I’ll pass. Nice meeting you, sir. Keep up the good work.”
His first steps to the door were tentative; would they stop him? They didn’t. He left the room, fought the urge to run, made his way down to the ground floor, and exited onto Pennsylvania Avenue, where he hailed a cab. Ten minutes later he was running up the stairs to Roseann’s apartment. She was on the phone when he entered.
“Hold on,” she said, “he just walked in.”
“Who is it?” he asked, noticing a pile of papers torn from a small pad with names and phone numbers written on them.
“It’s Gil Gardello,” she said.
Potamos took the phone from her.
“The story,” Gardello said. “What happened at the FBI?”
“Nothing. We broke bread and swapped recipes.”
“Stay there, Joe. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t bother, Gil, I—”
The click of the phone being hung up was like the snap of a bullwhip in Potamos’s ear.
“Joe,” Roseann said, “all these messages are for you. The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”
He quickly scanned the slips of paper. “What’s this one?” he asked, handing it to her. “There’s no name.”
“Oh, my flight information. Bill Walters called. He’s booked me into the Cedars in Pennsylvania, outside Pittsburgh.”
“When?”
“Tonight. A fancy dinner for a bunch of big shots, government and business types. The money’s great, triple scale, and all expenses.”
“Tonight?”
“I’m subbing. That’s why it’s last minute.”
“I thought maybe—”
“What?”
“I thought maybe you’d be around with all this craziness going on.”
“Oh, Joe,” she said, kissing him, “I’ll be back later tonight. The job’s two hours. Fly there on a puddle jumper—only an hour flight—do my thing, hop the last plane back to DC tonight. Come with me, Joe. Get away for a few hours.”
“Nah, can’t. I’ve got all these TV shows to do tonight.”
“You’re going to do them?”
“Yeah. I’d better start calling everybody back.”
“And I have to get ready. I leave for the airport in a couple of hours.”
Potamos nodded and started dialing a number.
“Joe.”
“What?”
“I’m really proud of you.”
“Are you? Good. I’m proud of you, too. Go on, get your act together.” He smiled as he finished dialing and waited for the Larry King show to answer.
He’d just confirmed to King’s producer that he would show up that evening when Gil Gardello arrived.
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” Potamos said.
“Joe, listen to me. I’m sorry about what happened earlier. I said you were fired to wake you up, that’s all, get you to realize you were skating on thin ice. Bowen’s