Jerry Bridges, sitting in the chair opposite his employer’s desk, chewed on his knuckles and said nothing. One part of his mind wanted him to play it cagey, to behave the way the newspaper wanted him to behave, to protect the cozy Washington assignment he had waited four years to get. But another part of him, a rebel part, wanted him to stay on the trail of the story he felt sure was about to break.

I didn’t mean to make trouble, Mr. Conners, he said casually. It just seemed strange, all these exchanges of couriers in the past two days. I couldn’t help thinking something was up.

Even if that’s true, we’ll hear about it through the usual channels, Conners frowned. But getting a senator’s secretary drunk to obtain information–well, that’s not only indiscreet, Bridges. It’s downright dirty.