Even in the midst of my writing, I’d been shocked by the article. All the talk about Saddam’s weapons had seemed like hearsay to this point. But it was right there, page one, the New York Times.

“Rice and Cheney have already been on TV,” Gordon told me. “Condoleeza lifted the mushroom cloud line right off the front page. It’s total chaos over here. Mort’s doing something, well, quite drastic.”

“What is it?”

“He’s rushing out another issue. We’ve already produced and shipped this month’s, but he says the Times allegations can’t wait to be investigated. We have a lot of work to do, Whitney. It’s all hands on deck, I’m afraid.”

—

I’d never seen the office like this. A few writers, whom Mort had tasked with probing the Times report, seemed to know what they were doing, but everyone else was clueless, and the man who ought to be guiding us through the situation had retreated to his office. I could see Mort with his head in his hands, staring at something on his desk. To make it all more miserable, a urinal had overflowed in the men’s room, and water of unknown composition was running down the hall. Everyone was using the women’s, and there was piss all over the seats.

After Gordon gave me the package I’d couriered from Tampa, I asked, “What do you need?”

“Do you have the courage to talk to Mort?”

“Sure.”

“He said to give him an hour and it’s been three. After he went apoplectic this morning, everyone is spooked, myself included.”

“What do you want me to ask him?”

“In brief, what the hell is going in this issue? And is a plumber on the way?”

I knocked on Mort’s door and gently opened it. I could feel my colleagues’ eyes on my back.

Mort glanced up. “Whitney?”

“I’m back,” I said. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

He just blinked.

“The story’s going well,” I added. “You’ll have it soon.”

Mort smiled but made no reply. I looked at the paper on his desk, which I realized was a financial ledger. The cost of printing a second issue must’ve been astronomical.

“The staff is wondering what’s going on,” I said. “Is there something I can tell them?”

Mort sighed. “Tell them we’ll make this work, somehow.”

“Alright. Anything else?”

He pushed his upper lip with a pencil. “Tell them there won’t be a culture file in the issue. If these guys aren’t stopped, there won’t be a culture to file on.”

“Okay, I’ll tell them,” I said, trying to stay upbeat. “And I’m going to call a plumber too, unless you’ve already done that.”

“Plumber?”

—

“Jesus, that bad, huh,” Gordon said after I’d relayed the directives. “I’m sorry for calling you in.”