Goldman dropped the paper towel on the floor and sat next to Ida on the bed, head in his hands.

"You do?" she said. "Then you must call the police at once!"

"I can't," Goldman said. "They will find me and kill me too. What they are planning to do is so terrible that even I could not face it. Not after all these years…"

"Then call the newspapers," Ida insisted. "No one can trace you through them. Look."

Ida picked up the newspaper from her lap.

"It's the Washington Post. Call them up and tell them you have a big story. They'll listen to you."

Goldman grabbed her hands fiercely, giving Ida an electric thrill.

"You think so? There is a chance? They can end this nightmare?"

"Of course," Ida said kindly. "I know you can do it, Ben. I trust you." Ida Goldman. Not a bad name. It had a nice ring to it.

Ben Isaac stared in awe. He had dreams of his own. But could it be? Could this handsome woman have the answer? Goldman fumbled for the phone that lay near the foot of the bed and dialed Information.

"Hello? Information? Do you have the number of the Washington Post newspaper?"

Ida beamed.

"Oh? What?" Goldman put his hand over the receiver. "Administrative offices or subscription?" he asked.

"Administrative," Ida replied.

"Administrative," said Goldman. "Yes? Yes, two, two, three… six, zero, zero, zero. Thank you." Goldman hung up, glanced in Ida's direction, then dialed again.

"Two, two, three…" his finger moved, "six, zero, zero."

"Ask for Redford or Hoffm… I mean Woodward and Bernstein," said Ida.

"Oh, yes," said Goldman, "Hello? May I speak to… Redwood or Hoffstein, please?"

Ida smiled in spite of herself.

"Oh?" said Goldman. "What? Yes, of course. Thank you." He turned to Ida. "They're switching me to a reporter," he said, and waited, sweating. "Ida, do you really think they can help me?"