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Jordan laughed. ‘Not just having lunch.’
‘Who’s that?’ Pearson asked.
Mitchell did not need to look. ‘The one farthest from the door is Quincey Jordan.’
A long journey for the skinny runt who wasn’t tall enough to play basketball and who’d got his ass kicked – as Jordan himself would have put it – because he’d therefore had to spend his evenings hunched over his school-books. Because in America in die sixties and seventies, in America today, sports scholarships were the normal way up if you were poor and black.
‘I know Quince,’ Pearson told him. I know that he used to work the Old Man, as they say in the trade; I know that before he left the Secret Service, Jordan was on the presidential detachment; that now he runs one of the select companies providing specialist services to both government and private organizations, as well as to people like me. ‘Who’s the other?’
‘A Brit. Dave Haslam.’
‘Tell me about him.’ Who he is and what Jordan’s doing with him.
‘Haslam’s a kidnap consultant. Ex British Special Air Service. Worked with our Special Forces people in the Gulf.’
‘What did he do there?’
‘He doesn’t talk about it much.’
‘But?’
‘I gather he’s got a letter from the president stuck up in his bathroom.’
‘Why?’ Pearson asked.
‘Why what?’
‘Why’s he got a letter from the president?’
A waitress cleared their plates and brought them coffee.
‘One of the great fears during the Gulf War was that Israel would become involved. They didn’t because for some reason which no one’s ever explained, Saddam didn’t launch his full range of Scud missiles against them. Saddam didn’t do that because someone took them out. That’s why Haslam’s got a letter from the president stuck on his bathroom door.’
It was ten minutes to two, the restaurant suddenly emptying. On the other table Haslam paid the bill, then he and Jordan rose to leave.
‘Ed, Mitch.’ Jordan crossed and shook their hands. ‘Good to see you both.’
Haslam greeted Mitchell and waited till Jordan introduced him to Pearson.
‘Join us for coffee,’ Pearson suggested.
‘Thanks, but we’ve had our fill,’ Jordan told him.
‘You’re from England.’ Pearson looked up at Haslam.
‘How’d you guess?’ It was said jokingly.
‘Working or visiting?’
‘Working.’
But you know that already, because you’ve already asked Mitch about me.
‘Next time you’re on the Hill, drop in.’
It was Washington-style, part of what the politicians called networking.
‘Which room?’ The reply was casual, no big deal.
‘Russell Building 396,’ Pearson told him. ‘Make it this afternoon if you’re passing by.’
He watched as Haslam and Jordan left, then turned back to Mitchell. ‘You have much on at the moment?’
The first frost touched Mitchell’s spine. ‘Nothing I couldn’t wrap up quickly.’
‘Jack and I would like you on the team.’
‘Anything specific?’
‘Jack might want to announce a special investigation, but before he does he wants a prelim done to make sure it will stand up.’
‘What on?’
‘Something the man and woman in the street can identify with and understand. Something like Savings and Loans, perhaps.’ The financial scandal in the eighties in which many people had lost their money. ‘Banking and the laundering of drug money are also front runners.’ But it could be anything Mitchell chose – it was in Pearson’s eyes, Pearson’s shrug. As long as Mitchell could deliver.
Why? someone else might have asked. ‘When exactly would Jack like to announce the results?’ Mitchell asked instead.
Pearson finished his coffee and reached for his napkin. ‘Possibly next March or April,’ Pearson told him.
The party would choose its candidate at its convention in the August, but the votes at that convention would be governed by each candidate’s share of the vote in the primaries three months before. The right publicity at that time, therefore, and a candidate might leave his rivals standing.
‘If not in the primaries, then when?’ Mitchell asked.
Because if a candidate’s bandwagon was already rolling, his team might hold back certain things till later.
‘October of next year,’ Pearson said simply.
A month before the people of America voted for their next president.
‘When do you want me to start?’
‘As soon as you can.’
‘And when does Jack want to announce he’s setting up an investigation?’
Because then he’d be in the news. Because then he could use it to help launch his campaign. But only if he was guaranteed of delivering.
‘A precise date?’ Pearson asked.
‘Yeah, Ed. A precise date.’
There was an unwritten law among politicians running for their party’s nomination: that in order to win the primaries, there was a date by which a candidate must declare. That day was Labour Day, the first Monday of the first week in the preceding September. This September. Three months off.
Pearson folded the napkin slowly and deliberately, placed it on the table and looked at Mitchell, the first smile appearing on his face and the first laugh in his eyes.
‘Labour Day sounds good.’
The heat of the afternoon was relaxing, which was dangerous, because he might think he had unwound. And if he thought that then he might accept another job before he was ready.
Haslam sat on the steps of Capitol Hill and looked down the Mall.
Thirty-six hours ago he’d been dealing with Ortega, and thirty hours before that he’d been praying to whatever God he believed in for the safe delivery of the little girl called Rosita.
He left the steps and walked to Russell Building.
The buildings housing the offices of members of the US Senate were to the north of Capitol Hill and those housing members of the House of Representatives to the south, the gleaming façades of the US Supreme Court and the Library of Congress between. Two of the Senate offices, Dirksen and Hart, were new and one, Russell, was the original. Five hundred yards to the north stood Union Station.
Haslam entered Russell Building by the entrance on First and Constitution Avenue, passed through the security check, ignored the lifts and walked up the sweep of stairs to the third floor. The corridors were long with high ceilings and the floors were marble, so that his footsteps echoed away from him. He checked the plan of the floor at the top of the stairs and turned right, even numbers on his left, beginning with 398, and odd on his right, a notice on the door of 396 saying that all enquiries should be through 398.
The reception room was pleasantly though functionally furnished, the window at the rear facing on to the courtyard round which Russell was built. There were two secretaries, one female and in her mid-twenties and the other male and younger, probably fresh out of college and working as a volunteer, Haslam thought. He introduced himself, then looked round at the photographs on the walls while the woman telephoned the AA.
Some of the prints were of Donaghue, which he expected, others were of the Senator’s home state, which he also expected, and one was of President John F. Kennedy.
Pearson came from the door behind the secretary’s desk and held out his hand. He had taken off his jacket, but still wore a waistcoat.
‘Glad you could make it. Coffee?’
‘Milk, no sugar.’ Haslam shook his hand and followed him through. The next room was neat, though not as large as Haslam had expected, with two desks, each with telephones and computers, leather swing chairs facing the desks, and more photographs on the walls. The bookcases were lined with political, constitutional and legal texts.
‘So this is where it happens.’ Haslam glanced round.
‘Sometimes.’ The secretary brought them each a mug. ‘Let me show you round.’ Pearson led him back through the reception offices to the one on the far side, then to those on the opposite side of the corridor, identifying rooms and occasionally introducing people. It was the PR tour, albeit executive class. The sort visiting dignitaries from the Senator’s home state might get.
They came to the conference room.
‘Rooms are allocated according to seniority and positions held. Senator Donaghue is on three committees and chairs a subcommittee of Banking, hence he gets this.’
If Donaghue’s nearing the end of his second term and he’s on so many committees, then why doesn’t he get a modern suite in one of the two new buildings, Haslam thought.
They were back in Pearson’s room. The AA opened the door to the left of his desk and showed him through.
The third door from the corner, Haslam calculated, therefore Room 394.
The room was rectangular, the shortest side to their left as they entered, and the windows in it looked on to the central courtyard. The walls were painted a soothing pastel and hung with paintings and photographs. The Senator’s desk was in front of the window, with flags either side. In the centre of the wall opposite the door through which they had just entered, was a large dark green marble fireplace. At the end of the room furthest from the window was a small round conference table, leather chairs round it; in the corner next to it stood a walnut cabinet containing a television set and minibar, a coffee percolator on top.
The desk by the window was antique, the patina of the years giving it a soft appearance. The top was clear except for a telephone and a silver-framed family photograph – Donaghue, a woman presumably his wife, and two girls. On the front of the desk was a length of polished oak, the face angled, on which were carved three lines:
Some men see things as they are and say why;
I dream things that never were and say why not.
ROBERT KENNEDY, 1968
The inner sanctum, Haslam thought. ‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Pearson told him.
Haslam walked round the room, looking at the paintings then at the photographs, and stopped at the two above the fireplace.
The first, in black and white and of World War Two vintage, was of two young men in the uniforms of naval lieutenants; in the background was a PT boat.
‘I recognize Kennedy. Who’s the other man?’
‘A friend of the Senator’s father,’ Pearson explained. ‘He was to be the Senator’s godfather, but was killed in action before Donaghue was born.’
The second photograph, this time in colour, was of a young Donaghue, also dressed in naval uniform, and the citation beside it was for bravery, the date fixing it in the Vietnam War.
To the right of the fireplace were another set, plain and simple: Donaghue as a small boy, Donaghue at school, Donaghue at Harvard, Donaghue with the woman in the family photograph on his desk.
The print next to them was black and white and had been blown up, so that its images were slightly grainy. The photograph was of mourners at a funeral and there was a tall, good-looking woman in the second row. She seemed deeply distressed. Her head was bent slightly, as if she was listening to someone on her right who was obscured by the mourners in the front row, but her eyes were fixed rigid and staring straight ahead.
They left the room and returned to Pearson’s.
‘Interesting photos,’ Haslam suggested. ‘Almost the story of Donaghue’s life, except that I don’t understand some of them.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Vietnam, for example. I thought he opposed the war.’
Pearson nodded. ‘There’s something you should understand about Jack Donaghue.’ He settled at his desk, swung his feet up and held the coffee mug in his lap, Haslam opposite him. ‘Some would say Donaghue is an enigma: of the Establishment but against it. The fact that he’s against it makes him a good Senator, the fact that he’s from it makes him an effective one.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Jack Donaghue’s background is Boston Irish.’ It was in line with the PR tour – nothing said that wasn’t on a cv or in a file somewhere, nothing controversial or private. ‘Privileged upbringing, Harvard of course, which was where his politics began.’
‘How?’ Haslam asked.
‘It was at Harvard that Donaghue first declared his opposition to the Vietnam War.’
‘So why the photo of him in uniform? Why the awards for bravery?’
‘As some would say, Jack’s an enigma.’ Pearson switched easily between first and second names. ‘He opposed the war yet at the same time felt a duty to his country. Others dodged the draft or used their connections to get safe postings, but when Jack’s number came up he did neither. Ended up commanding a Swift boat, doing runs up the deltas. He was awarded a couple of Bronze Stars, plus a Silver Star. Apparently he might have been up for a Navy Medal, even a Medal of Honor, but hinted that he would turn it down. Said he was being considered because of his connections, and that everyone on his boat deserved an award and not just him.’
‘What was that for?’
Pearson looked down at the coffee mug. ‘He doesn’t talk about it much. Seems some recon guys were holed up on a river bank, heavy casualties and surrounded by NVA. The choppers couldn’t reach them and they were finished. Donaghue got them out, though he himself was wounded.’
Except if Donaghue got a Silver Star and was up for a Navy Medal or a Medal of Honor, there was more to it than that, Haslam thought. ‘After Vietnam?’ he asked.
