EightAfter taking a lingering hot shower and eating a room service lunch, Michael settles into his D.C. hotel room by unpacking a few things. On the phone with Jergens, he roots around idly through the personal items in his overnighter.
“Looks like it's in the bag, Al. The reports, the photos, they were dynamite. I think Westwind will sink into its own stinking sink hole.”
He listens to Jergens talk a moment while he leans back onto the oversized bed pillows. “What information? Oh, you mean from that so-called informant on the plane? Yeah, can you believe it? He did give me some cassette tape before he – Christ, I haven't even listened to it. Obviously I didn't need it. But I will and let you know. Okay, see you tomorrow.”
Michael picks up the small, framed photograph of Dominique, whic
