< previous page page_60 next page >

Page 60
Morgan's patience ran out. He lifted Ryerson by the arms and marched him to the front door. ''Out," he said. "Before I forget what an important journalist you are."
"You're dangerous, Morgan. A good Nazi," Ryerson, struggling, said breathlessly.
Morgan thrust him out the door onto the step. "Good night."
"Listen, Morgan. I have contacts. Help me and I'll help you."
Morgan suppressed an impulse to laugh. The man was preposterous. Even as he retreated down the steps, Ryerson was asking: "Why did you visit the Canadian embassy? What were you doing at the Library of Congress?"
Morgan closed the door firmly and bolted it. Joe Ryerson had set warning bells ringing with his clumsy effort at "investigation." Ryerson had obviously followed him from the time Morgan left the White House. "My source," he had said. "I have contacts." He probably did. God knew he belonged at the bottom of the barrel of Capitol reporters, but he was getting information from someone, and damned fast, at that. Ryerson would regard disclosure of Morgan's mission as a scoop, a ticket back into the ranks of acceptance and fame and fortune. A single setback wouldn't discourage him.
But please, God, not soon, Morgan thought wearily. Keep the bastard away from me. He went into the kitchen, found a can of beer, and drank it standing naked in the dark. When Joan was alive they often did this together, wherever they were living, touching and laughing and making love amid the ignored crockery.
In the bedroom the candles were burning . . . Tell me about it, Anna Andreyevna, he thought.
Tripoli had departed.
Morgan crushed the beer can and walked back through the empty house to bed.

 
< previous page page_60 next page >