‘Thought you were going to say you didn’t drink while you were on duty,’ said Greenwood. He tossed some ice into glasses that were cold enough to whiten, and snapped the crown corks from three bottles in a row: they gave three little gasps.
‘I’d never get a drink if I pursued that kind of policy,’ said Mann.
‘Right. Right!’ said Greenwood in an absent-minded way, as if he’d already forgotten the beginning of the conversation. He set the drinks down on the antique side tables that were carefully arranged for each of the Barcelona chairs that faced his desk. It was a modern design: no more than two stainless-steel trestles supporting a sheet of armour glass. He walked round the desk, and sat in his Italian swivel chair. There was no front to the desk, and the papers arranged on the glass-top seemed to be floating in the air. Perhaps it was Greenwood’s way of proving he didn’t have a Derringer in his lap.
‘Mr Gerry Hart,’ said Greenwood, as though announcing that the courtesies were over.
‘Yes,’ said Mann.
‘I’ve got the report,’ said Greenwood.
‘It’s not a report, Senator,’ said Mann. ‘It’s just a private memo to you.’
‘Well, I’m not very conversant with the jargon of the CIA,’ said Greenwood, in such a way as to discourage instruction. He smiled. Greenwood’s smile used very even, very white, teeth. Like his attentive eyes, his sincere nods and pensive silences, Greenwood’s smiles were those of a man who was thinking about something more important. He was a handsome man, urbane rather than backwoods, but some women like that better. He’d have to lose twenty pounds before he’d win admiring glances at the poolside, but in his carefully tailored light-grey mohair and hand-made brogues, with his manicured hands, and face talced like a freshly-baked cottage-loaf, I saw in him a possible ladies’ man. Coming over here in the car we’d played ‘One-word Who’s Who’: Mann’s entry for Greenwood was ‘bullshit’, mine was ‘showbiz’, but no doubt, Greenwood’s entry for himself would be ‘boyish’.
Greenwood gave another of those dazzling smiles and said, ‘The truth is, fellers, we politicos are too busy shaking hands to spare much time for reading.’
‘Is that so,’ said Mann.
‘Well, maybe I’d better say in my own defence that I read about one hundred thousand words a day; and that’s longer than the average novel.’ That’s what I like about politicians, even their self-criticism doesn’t apply to them personally.
Mann said, ‘Your influence and importance in the Senate has always made you a target for ambitious and unscrupulous people, Senator …’ I saw Greenwood begin to scowl. Mann continued a little more hastily, ‘… And when you joined the Scientific Development sub-committee of the Senate Committee of International Co-operation …’ Greenwood smiled to show that he appreciated the way Mann had got the name right ‘… you became one of the most powerful men in the whole United States, Senator.’
Greenwood gave a brief nod. ‘Before you go on, Major. Maybe I should remind you that the CIA have got a Senate office that handles all contact with you people.’
‘We want to keep limited access,’ said Mann.
‘Limited access,’ said Greenwood. ‘I’m hearing a lot about limited access from your people.’
‘Any normal application, through the CIA Senate office, would be too likely to alert Mr Gerry Hart.’
‘And you don’t want to alert him?’
‘No, sir. We do not.’
‘Are we talking about off-the-record material, or press leaks, or are we talking about scientific data that my committee decided to publish but which you guys at the CIA don’t like to see published?’
‘We are talking about important secret material channelled to the USSR by means of an espionage network.’
‘Gerry Hart working for the Russians?’ Greenwood said. He drank some of his bourbon. ‘This is a guy who used to work with you people – did you know that?’
‘So he’d know how to pass it across. Right, Senator, you got it,’ said Mann pretending to be grateful that Greenwood was of the same mind. ‘And now we want to look at this house Gerry Hart owns, down near Brandywine.’
‘And his apartment in Georgetown,’ said Greenwood dispassionately.
Mann nodded. ‘And …’ he said. He waved a flattened hand in a moment’s hesitation. Even through the double-glazing we heard the police sirens. It was a Lincoln limousine flying flags and escorted by three motor-cycle cops. We watched them as they went over the bridge, probably heading for the airport.
‘And his office,’ said Greenwood.
‘And his office,’ said Mann. ‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘And yet, Major, you tell me you’ve no real hard evidence,’ said Greenwood. He sat back in his swivel chair and kicked gently, so that he could spin far enough to see the Potomac. The water seemed very still, and there was the gentle rumble of a jet plane.
‘Depends what you call hard evidence,’ said Major Mann sadly. ‘We got his name when following another line of investigation.’
I felt Mann’s indecision, as he wondered whether to emphasize our suspicions about Gerry Hart, or to minimize them and suggest that we wanted no more than a routine check that would eliminate Gerry Hart from our list of suspects. He decided not to elaborate on it, and sipped some of his drink, watching Greenwood expectantly.
Greenwood lifted one of his hand-made shoes high enough for him to retie the lace. ‘What I mean by hard evidence, Major,’ he said in a soft husky voice of the sort I’ve heard him use for his electioneering, ‘… what, in fact, everyone in this nation means by hard evidence, is something that can find a man guilty by due process of law.’ He looked up from his shoe-lace and smiled at Mann.
There was no need to draw any diagrams; we all knew the way it was going to go. But Mann went through the motions. He said, ‘We are at the preliminary stages of a complex and extremely delicate investigation, Senator. We don’t have that kind of hard evidence which you define, but that doesn’t mean that no such evidence exists. I’m now asking your assistance, so that we can get it, or eliminate Mr Hart from the investigation.’
Greenwood stared at Mann and said, ‘Well, I thought I’d let you guys come on down here, so that I could get a close look at you. Well, now I’ve seen you, and I don’t like what I see.’ The two men were staring at each other. ‘So beat it!’ said Greenwood. ‘And take the bag-man with you.’ He looked away from Mann in order to indicate me.
Mann stood up without saying a word, and I did too.
Greenwood didn’t get up. He said, ‘You really thought I’d throw Gerry Hart to your wolf-pack?’
Mann gave him a cold little smile, and said, ‘Into the snow, you mean? Well, Senator, you just better make sure Gerry Hart doesn’t toss you off the back of the troika when he wants to whip up the horses.’
‘You heard me,’ said Greenwood softly. ‘Get out!’
He let us get as far as the door before speaking again. When he did, his voice and manner had all the charm that had been there before. ‘Oh, Major Mann,’ he said, and waited until Mann turned back to face him. ‘Just in case you are thinking of filing some kind of a report that says I’m not co-operative, just let me tell you again that I only deal with you CIA people if it’s done in the proper way – through the Senate. So don’t let me hear that you are making approaches to anyone working in my office, until you’ve cleared it with me through your office. Have you got that, Major?’
‘Yes, Senator. You’ve made your position very clear.’
Mann was silent as we walked out to the car. For what seemed like hours, he drove aimlessly round the city: through the smart streets of Georgetown where Gerry Hart had his chic apartment, past the neat lawns of the White House – discoloured now by the winter frosts – and through the black ghettos and back along the Inner Loop Freeway.
When finally Mann spoke – apart from the muttered curses he’d used on other drivers – he said, ‘Last week there was this Foreign Minister, from some little West African republic,
lunched by the State Department … next day he took a ride down the freeway and was thrown out of a hamburger joint by some red-neck in Virginia.’
‘Is that so,’ I said politely. It was one of Washington’s standard anecdotes, and like most of Washington’s clichés it was usually true.
Mann’s mind raced on. ‘It’s a court here in Washington. It’s not a government, it’s a court. Know what I mean?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Like a medieval palace – the President brings in his own people and sweeps out the previous ones. Some are elected men … others are outsiders … courtiers: jesters, acrobats, jugglers and story-tellers … plenty of story-tellers.’
‘Knights, knaves and Quixotes,’ I added, ‘chivalrous men and courtly ladies … well, it’s one way of looking at it.’
The traffic came to a standstill and Mann cursed. One of the big government office blocks was emptying, and a great flood of secretaries washed through the stationary traffic.
‘And what is Greenwood?’ I asked him. ‘Jester, joker, jack-in-the-green?’
‘Court favourite,’ said Mann. ‘The ear of the king, and a whole army of people to back him up.’ The traffic began moving again, pedestrians scattered and Mann hit the horn, accelerated suddenly and changed lanes with a reckless skill that made a truck-driver yell. ‘Not only the people who owe him a favour, and the ones who want him to owe them one,’ said Mann, ‘but all those bastards who have an obsessional hatred of us. The CIA has a lot of enemies, and no one is going to thank us for mobilizing them under Greenwood’s flag.’
‘But wouldn’t you have done what Greenwood did?’
‘What did he do?’
‘Stalled us,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t want us in there taking Hart to pieces, and spattering blood and shit all over everyone in Greenwood’s office. My guess is he’ll tow Gerry Hart slowly out into the middle of the ocean, and sink him out of sight of land.’
‘Are you trying to cheer me up?’ said Mann bitterly. ‘If Hart is the kind of high-power KGB agent we both are beginning to think he might be, he could transfer the whole operation by that time. And maybe even get clear himself.’
‘You’re going after Hart direct?’
‘Not for the moment.’
‘Are you going higher?’ I asked him.
Mann chuckled. ‘The President, you mean? Like in those movies where some white-haired old actor you thought was dead years ago, shakes us solemnly by the hand, and says this is the last reel, fellers, go and get lined up for the soft focus. Hah. No, nothing like that, but I can make a shiver run up and down Greenwood’s spine.’
‘How?’
‘He’s frightened of getting spattered with Gerry Hart’s blood? I’ll rub his nose in it.’
‘How?’
‘He won’t co-operate? Well, I’ll show him a few tricks. He’s frightened of what his friends might say if he’s seen co-operating with the CIA? … Well, I’ll scrawl CIA on his garden wall, mister, and I’ll send him a thank-you through every postal delivery. I’ll make that bastard the talk of Washington, I’ll make him the famous CIA stoolie.’
‘He won’t like that,’ I said.
Mann smiled. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we could get him an official commendation.’
We seemed to be driving round in circles. I said, ‘Are we staying the night here in Washington?’
Mann bit his lip. ‘My wife is going crazy in that hotel … It’s my wedding anniversary today. Maybe I should buy her some kind of gift.’
‘Does that mean you’re staying?’
‘If you see a candy store and somewhere I can park.’
They said it was the wettest winter in living memory but then they are always saying that. The sky had turned a dirty orange colour, and now the rain was heavy.
It was the sort of tropical shower that reminds you that Washington, DC, is nearly as far south as Tunis. Mann switched the wipers on, and there was a breath of steam rising from the metal of the car. He tried to tune in to the news bulletin but the static and the high-tension wires blotted out the transmission. Nervously Mann shook a cigarette out of the packet and lit it, using only one hand. I offered to help him but he declined.
We were on South Capitol Street, heading for the Anacostia Freeway, with Major Mann still trying to decide whether to stay in town to start fabricating angst for Greenwood, when the car phone buzzed. I took it. It was the information room at Langley. ‘Car hop,’ said the voice.
‘Cheer Leader,’ I said, ‘go ahead.’
‘Message from Jonathan,’ said the voice. ‘Fabian attempted suicide at fourteen thirty hours today. He is not in danger. Repeat: he is not in danger, but he will be hospitalized for seven or ten days. Do you read that? Over.’
‘Five by five, car hop.’
‘Crazy bastard,’ said Mann.
Langley said, ‘Jonathan asks will he tell Ambrose.’
I looked at Mann. He bit his lip. I passed the phone to him.
Langley said, ‘Did you read that, Cheer Leader?’
Mann said, ‘Loud and clear, car hop. Tell nobody. Over and out.’ He hung up the phone.
Mann glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. I turned to him. ‘Yeah, well I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s need to know.’
‘Oh sure,’ I said angrily. ‘Or is it, how much can you pry loose? Who the hell is Ambrose?’
Mann didn’t answer.
‘Those A codes personnel are from Operations,’ I said. ‘We’ve got someone else working on this investigation – and you didn’t tell me.’
‘It was a dangerous assignment,’ said Mann defensively. ‘And a need-to-know classification means only those who must know are told.’
‘So that’s the way it’s going to be from now on?’ I said. ‘OK, but just don’t complain afterwards.’
‘Miss Bancroft,’ said Mann.
Now it was my turn to go silent for a long time. ‘Red?’ I said finally. ‘An A code agent? It took me ten years to get that.’
Mann stubbed out the cigarette he’d only just started. ‘Temporary A code. Solely with Mrs Bekuv. No decision-making …’ he waved a hand at the telephone … ‘no access – you heard that for yourself – no filing, except through me. Just a nursemaid job.’ He put the smouldering cigarette-stub into the ashtray and closed it.
‘How long has she been working for the CIA?’
‘Is that still ongoing – you and the Bancroft girl?’ The cigarette-stub was making a lot of smoke. Mann banged the ashtray to make sure it was closed but the smoke emerged from it just the same. ‘Is it? Is it still serious?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Yeah, well when a guy says he doesn’t know if a thing like that’s still serious – it’s still serious.’
‘I suppose so,’ I admitted.
‘Well, you’ll have to forget her for a few days. You get down to that Norfolk nut-house, and kick shit out of our pal Jonathan. And you tell Professor goddamn Bekuv that if he wants to commit any more suicide and doesn’t know how, I’ll come down there and lend him a hand.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘And twist his arm, show him some more photos of Gerry Hart. He still knows a whole lot more than he’s telling us.’ Mann opened the ashtray again, and gave the cigarette-stub the coup de grâce.
‘I could drive down to Norfolk,’ I offered. ‘If I started right away I could be there as fast as the plane.’
It was an exaggeration. Mann smiled. ‘And stop at Petersburg en route, you mean? Stop and see Miss Bancroft.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Go by plane, kid. I told you to stay away from her. Do I have to put it in writing?’
‘But …’
He said, ‘We’re friends, aren’t we? Real friends I mean?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I looked at him, waiting for what would follow these portentous and, for Major Mann, unusually personal words. ‘Why?’
Whatever he was going to tell me, he changed his mind about. ‘O
h, I was just going to say, take care of yourself.’ He changed lanes to get to the freeway exit. ‘I’ll take you to the airport,’ he said.
I should have obeyed orders. I didn’t, and what happened subsequently was all my fault. I don’t mean that I could have influenced events, it was far too late for that, but I could have protected myself from the horror of it. Or I could have let Mann protect me, as he was already trying to do.
18
After Mann dropped me at the airport I went straight to the car rentals and asked about fast cars. I finally got a Corvette Stingray. While I was waiting for it, I bought a heart-shaped box of chocolate-covered fudge. The old lady behind the counter seemed relieved to get rid of it.
My car was gold with real leather upholstery, a V-eight motor of 200 bhp, and once on the highway I put my foot down all the way south. I told myself that I needed a fast car to pay a brief visit to Red and still reach Norfolk in time to phone Mann and convince him I’d taken the plane. But looking back on it, I realize that the flashy car was just one more part of my determination to make Red love me, as desperately as I loved her.
Red Bancroft, Mrs Bekuv and three shifts of heavies were tucked away in a house in the country, not far from St Petersburg, Florida. It was a dark night, and the place was difficult to find. My headlights picked up a sign that said ‘Hook Ups for Trailers and Campers’. There were only two trailers hooked into the power line and I heard the door of the nearest one click as soon as I stopped. A man stepped down. On the other side of the road there was a small sign for ‘Pederson’s Herb and Fruit Farm – Private’. I parked off the road close to a billboard that advised me ‘Next time fly the friendly skies’.
With hardly a word spoken, he took me to the trailer, but not before flashing a torch into the back of my car and checking the boot to be sure I was alone. There were two more of them inside the trailer, big men with heavy woollen zipper jackets and high-laced boots, but their faces were soft and pale, and none of them looked the type who goes camping in the depths of winter. Behind the trailers I saw three cars and a couple of guard dogs secured to a post.
‘I suppose it’s OK,’ he said reluctantly. He passed the card and the CIA slips back across the table to me. ‘You follow the path – through the yellow gate near the sign. I’ll phone the house to tell them.’ He switched off the lights before opening the trailer door: he was a careful man.