“Thanks for calling. I appreciate it.”

“You should know something,” this Eugene said. “This is personal. I’m not talking to you officially.”

“Understood.”

“Are you taking notes? Because, if you are, I want you to stop.” Mitch let his fingers rest on the keyboard.

“They’re wrong,” Eugene said.

“Who is?”

“The other paper.”

“Have you seen the report?”

“That’s all I’m going to say.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

“That’s all I’m going to say to you, Mitch. As a friend.”

“You’ve read the paper’s Web site?”

That created a pause.

“You’re trying to get me to say more.”

“Eugene. You can’t do this to me.”

“I have read the paper’s Web site.”

“Can I use this off the record?”

“What does that mean in this situation?”

“I would say an intelligence official said the account of the report published in the other paper was incorrect.”

“No, you can’t use it off the record.”

“On background?”

“And your definition of that today is?”

“I can use it, but I can’t attribute it to anyone, not even a military official. I have to get more people besides you to say that.”

“That’s fair-minded of you.”

“Eugene. You know that’s how it works.”

“So you pressure other people, get them to say the other paper’s account of the report is wrong.”

“What’s with you? Pressure? Pressure? I ask them.”

“Do you say to them, I have this from someone on background?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t use it that way, then.”

“Then there’s really no point in telling me,” Mitch said. Vera felt he was angry now. He needed Eugene to tell him. Eugene held the jack for Mitch’s oh-so-flat tire. It was nothing to Eugene to tell him. Please, please, please, Vera was saying to herself, please, tell him.

“At least you’ll know. That’s the best I can do. Bye for now.”

Vera looked at Mitch. She felt her nose tingle, her eyes burning. Mitch was screwed. Totally, totally screwed. He was blinking an awful lot. It was as if he couldn’t believe what his ears told him.

Everyone in the Room was phoning—after two o’clock, the racing that was putting stories together had begun. Anyone who didn’t have a story was feeling antsy about being lazy. Vera did. Her colleagues were byline counters, almost all of them. The more you had, the more valuable you were. The more stories, the more praise, the more good, good, good, everything is good.

She cared more for Mitch than for measuring up. And wait, Martina—she was—where? Vera stretched to see. She looked at the clock. It was almost ten after two. Could it be? Yes, Martina had gone to the meeting without stopping by Mitch’s desk. This was reprieve and relief. It might even get him through the next hour.