“Certainly is,” Don Grady said, clearly only half listening.

“What?” That was the Metro editor. He didn’t care who played Don in the movie, he would not let such shit mar this scene. “Certainly is what?”

“Why, old news, of course,” Don said.

“That’s not what he said,” the Metro editor said.

“I’m sorry. What did he say?”

“That we could have used this report,” Adam said.

“What report, just to make sure, is this?” Harriet’s lips had lifted, but just a tad, from her cup rim.

“The Sissy report.” “White House surveillance report.” “The puppet report.” “Family Jewels II.” “Black ops.” Gordon didn’t venture a title. Neither did Don. He looked momentarily snookered. Vera tried not to stare at him.

“What did you call it?” Adam directed the question in a straight line to Don.

“I didn’t,” Don replied.

“Why not?” Adam shot.

There was a noiseless tick as more than three people gained the understanding that something besides Vera’s story was at issue.

“I don’t think, just yet, just now,” Bray was saying in some kind of continental, faintly Brit way, “that this particular”—drawing out each syllable—“piece of journalism”—again each sound articulated and isolated—“is ready for the newspaper.” He fanned the pages of the book he’d been toying with on Adam’s desk as a punctuation mark, lifted his chin, and grinned, mouth closed.

From the desire of being consulted.

Constance whirred up. She narrowed her eyes at Gordon. “Gordon,” she said, “Gordon, since you think it’s not ready, which I wholeheartedly agree with, by the way, but could you, would you sum it up, put it in a nutshell for me.”

Gordon looked at her, semi-horrified.

“What in a nutshell?” whispered the Metro editor.

“The story.”

“This story?”

“This story right here on our laps.”

“It’s not on my lap.”

“Vera’s story. What’s it about? Is it about a plane crash? A secret military program? A Pentagon—what did you call him, spook tasker?—gone renegade? A deeper problem in our military system?? What? It seems to be about too many things.”

From the desire of being approved.

“I don’t see a nut graph. I just don’t.”

“It begins, The program raises questions about the creation of a new, sub-rosa military command,” protested Vera’s new editor, truculent.

“Who saw this guy the night of the crash?” Gordon Bray’s voice cut through.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Stanley said, standing up. He was off the side table, but holding on to it for support.

Gordon looked at Stanley. Vera could see he didn’t know who Stanley was. From the fear of being humiliated, deliver me.

“That’s really between Vera and her immediate editor, and myself,” Adam said to Gordon. He’d let this get too heated too fast. He smiled at Stanley. But Stanley wasn’t looking at Adam.

“It’s a young streetwalker named Patrice Edwards,” Vera’s new editor said, apparently unable to hear Adam over the energetic trading of sentences between Constance and her two Pentagon reporters.