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said.
    Alexander said, ”I don’t understand.“
    I took a deep breath. ”Can we try to track down her partner or could it be any one of a number?“
    Alexander stopped and squeezed his eyes shut and then turned his head away from me and down, almost the way a dog will cower. He tried to say something and couldn’t. He tried again and still couldn’t. His hands were deep in his raincoat pockets, his shoulders were hunched, and he rocked a little, as if a gentle wind were making him sway.
    Finally he said, ”I don’t know,“ in a barely human voice.
    ”Can you ask her?“ I said.
    He shook his head.
    The wind picked up a little and the rain, while it was still fine, was beginning to slant a bit as it came down, and drive in our faces. I turned my back to it. Alexander still stood swaying, facedown, unaware.
    ”If it came down to it,“ I said, ”would you drop out of the race?“
    Without looking up he nodded again.
    ”And never tell her why?“ I said.
    Nod.
    ”And throw your support to Browne?“
    Nod.
    ”I’ve heard Browne is mob-connected.“
    Nod.
    ”And you’d support him?“
    Alexander’s shoulders were beginning to shake. He raised his face. Tears were squeezing out of his squinted eyes and running down his face.
    ”Yes,“ he said. His voice shook, but there was an energy in it I had never heard before. He straightened a little and stopped swaying. The rain came harder and the wind intensified. It was no longer a good rain to walk in. Even under other circumstances. It had gotten cold, as if November had reasserted itself. We were alone on the street, with the wind driving the rain before it.
    Blow, winds, and crack your cheek!
    ”I would support Satan to spare her,“ Alexander said.
    I nodded. ”So would I,“ I said.

Chapter 8
    It was nearly midnight when we got back to the Marriott and went up with the water dripping off us and making small puddles on the elevator floor. Outside the door to his suite Alexander paused and looked at me. His eyes were a little red, but other than that he had it back together.
    ”We’ll be returning to Washington through the holidays. I don’t use Christmas to campaign,“ Alexander said.
    I nodded.
    ”I want her free of this,“ he said. ”Remember that priority. It is the only absolute you have. She is to be free of this.“
    I nodded.
    ”And she’s not to know.“
    I nodded.
    Alexander put out his hand. I took it. We shook hands. Alexander stood a minute holding on to my hand after we’d finished shaking. He started to speak, stopped, started again, and then shook his head and released my hand. I nodded.
    ”I have to trust you,“ he said. ”I’ve no other hope.“
    Then he went into the suite and I went next door to the room shared by Cambell and Fraser. I knocked on the door. When Fraser opened it I said, ”Alexander’s back. I’m going to bed.“
    Fraser nodded, closed the door, and I went to my room on the other side of Alexander’s.
    In the morning Alexander told Cambell and Fraser that I was doing a special assignment for him and that they’d have the full security responsibility henceforth. I rented a car and drove ninety miles back to Boston and straight to Morrisey Boulevard. It was twenty of eleven when I pulled into the visitors’ parking space in front of the Globe. It was ten of eleven when I was sitting in the straight chair beside Wayne Cosgrove’s desk in the newsroom.
    ”This a social call,“ Cosgrove said, ”or are you undercover for the Columbia Journalism Review?“
    ”No, I came in to lodge a complaint about the Globe’s white-collar liberal stance and they directed me to you.“
    Cosgrove nodded. ”Yes,“ he said. ”I handle those complaints.“
    ”Well, what have you to say?“
    ”Fuck you.“
    ”Gee,“ I said, ”words must be your business.“
    He grinned. ”Now that we’re through playing, you gonna tell me what you want?“
    ”I want everything you have on Robert Browne.“
    Cosgrove was tall and