Marybell looked a little frantic. Such talk was incorrect even in Reagan's Washington. Then she looked over Lidka's shoulder and saw another guest hovering. "Karim, darling!" she screeched. She embraced a handsome dark-skinned man in an immaculate pin-striped suit. "Meet Cam Dewar and his wife, Lidka. This is Karim Abdullah, from the Saudi embassy."
Karim shook hands. "I've heard of you, Cam," he said. "I work closely with some of your colleagues in Langley."
Karim was letting Cam know he was in Saudi intelligence.
Karim turned to Lidka. She was looking startled. Cam knew why. She had not expected to see someone as dark as Karim at Marybell's party.
However, Karim charmed her. "I have been told that Polish women are the most beautiful in the world," he said. "But I didn't believe it--until this moment." He kissed her hand.
Lidka could take any amount of that sort of bullshit.
"I heard what you were saying about black people," Karim said. "I agree with you. We have none in Saudi Arabia--so we have to import them from India!"
Cam could see that Lidka was bewildered by the fine distinctions of Karim's racism. To him, Indians were black but Arabs were not. Fortunately, Lidka knew when to shut up and listen to a man.
More guests came in. Karim lowered his voice. "However," he said conspiratorially, "we must be careful what we say--some of the guests may be liberals."
As if to illustrate his point, a tall, athletic-looking man with thick fair hair came in. He looked like a movie star. It was Jasper Murray.
Cam was not pleased. He had hated Jasper since they were teenagers. Then Jasper had become an investigative reporter and had helped to bring President Nixon down. His book about Nixon, Tricky Dick, had been a bestseller and a successful movie. He had been relatively quiet during the Carter administration, but had returned to the attack as soon as Reagan took over. He was now one of the most popular figures on television, up there with Peter Jennings and Barbara Walters. Only last night his show, This Day, had devoted half an hour to the American-backed military dictatorship in El Salvador. Murray had repeated claims by human rights groups that government death squads there had murdered thirty thousand people.
The network that broadcast This Day was owned by Frank Lindeman, Marybell's husband; so Jasper had probably felt unable to decline the invitation to dinner. The White House had put pressure on Frank to get rid of Jasper, but so far Frank had refused. Although he held a majority of shares, he had a board to answer to, and investors who could make trouble if he fired one of his biggest stars.
Marybell seemed to be anxiously waiting for something. Then one more guest arrived, rather late. She was a stunningly glamorous black woman lobbyist called Verena Marquand. Cam had not met her, but recognized her from photographs.
The butler announced dinner and they all moved through a double doorway to the dining room. The women made appreciative noises when they saw the long table decked with gleaming glassware and silver bowls of yellow hothouse roses. Cam saw that Lidka was wide-eyed. This outdid all the photographs in her home decorating magazines, he guessed. She had surely never seen or even imagined anything so lavish.
There were eighteen people around the table, but the conversation was immediately dominated by one person. She was Suzy Cannon, a vituperative gossip reporter. Half of what she wrote turned out to be untrue, but she had a jackal's nose for weakness. She was conservative, but more interested in scandal than politics. Nothing was private to her. Cam prayed that Lidka would keep her mouth shut. Anything said tonight might appear in tomorrow's newspaper.
But Suzy turned her gimlet eyes on Cam, to his surprise. "I believe you and Jasper know each other," she said.
"Not really," said Cam. "We met in London many years ago."
"But I hear that you both fell in love with the same girl."
How the hell did she know that? "I was fifteen, Suzy," Cam said. "I probably fell in love with half the girls in London."
Suzy turned to Jasper. "How about you? Do you remember this rivalry?"
Jasper had been deep in conversation with Verena Marquand, sitting next to him. Now he looked irritated. "If you're planning to write an article about teenage romances that took place more than twenty years ago, and call it news, Suzy, all I can say is you must be sleeping with your editor."
Everyone laughed: Suzy was in fact married to the news editor of her paper.
Cam noticed that Suzy's laugh was forced, and her eyes glared hatred at Jasper. He recalled that Suzy as a young journalist had been fired from This Day after a series of wildly inaccurate reports.
Now she said: "You must have been interested to watch Jasper's show on TV last night, Cam."
Cam said: "Not interested so much as dismayed. The president and the CIA are trying to support the anti-Communist government in El Salvador."
Suzy said: "And Jasper seems to be on the other side, doesn't he?"
Jasper said: "I'm on the side of truth, Suzy. I know this is hard for you to grasp." Cam noticed that no trace of his British accent remained.
Cam said: "I was sorry to see such propaganda on a major network."
Jasper snapped: "How would you report on a government that murders thirty thousand of its own citizens?"
"We don't accept that figure."
"Then how many citizens of El Salvador do you think have been murdered by their government? Give us the CIA estimate."
"You should have asked that before broadcasting your show."
"Oh, I did. I got no answer."
"No Central American government is perfect. You focus on the ones we support. I think you're simply anti-American."
Suzy smiled. "You're British, aren't you, Jasper?" she said with poisonous sweetness.
Jasper looked riled. "I became a U.S. citizen more than a decade ago. I'm so pro-American that I risked my damn life for this country. I spent two years in the United States Army--one of those in Vietnam. And I wasn't sitting on my ass behind a desk in Saigon, either. I saw action, and I killed people. You've never done that, Suzy. And how about you, Cam? What did you do in Vietnam?"
"I wasn't called up."
"Then maybe you should just shut the fuck up."
Marybell interrupted. "I think that's enough about Jasper and Cam." She turned to a congressman from New York sitting next to her. "I see that your city has banned discrimination against homosexuals. Are you in favor of that?"
The conversation turned to gay rights, and Cameron relaxed--too soon.
A question was asked about legislation in other countries, and Suzy said: "What's the law in Poland, Lidka?"
"Poland is a Catholic country," said Lidka. "We have no homosexuals there." A moment of silence ensued, and she added: "Thank God."
*
Jasper Murray left the Lindeman house at the same time as Verena Marquand. "Suzy Cannon is a real troublemaker," he said as they went down the steps.
Verena laughed, showing white teeth in the lamplight. "That's the truth."
They reached the sidewalk. The taxi Jasper had ordered was nowhere in sight. He walked with Verena to her car. "Suzy's got it in for me," he said.
"She can't do you much harm, can she? You're such a big shot now."
"On the contrary. There's a serious campaign against me in Washington right now. It's election year, and the administration doesn't want television programs like the one I did last night." He felt comfortable confiding in her. They had been thrown together the day they watched Martin Luther King die. That sense of intimacy had never really gone away.
Verena said: "I'm sure you can fight off a gossip attack."
"I don't know. My boss is an old rival called Sam Cakebread who has never liked me. And Frank Lindeman, who owns the network, would dearly love to get rid of me if he could find a pretext. Right now the board is afraid they'll be accused of biasing the news if they fire me. But one mistake and I'm out."
"You should be like Suzy, and marry the boss."
"I would if I could." He looked up a
nd down the street. "I ordered a taxi for eleven o'clock, but I don't see it. The show won't pay for limousines."
"Do you want a ride?"
"That'd be great."
They got into her Jaguar.
She took off her high-heeled shoes and handed them to him. "Put these on the floor on your side, would you?" She drove in her stockings. Jasper felt a sexy frisson. He had always found Verena devastatingly alluring. He watched her as she pulled into the late-night traffic and accelerated down the street. She was a good driver, if a little too fast: no surprise there.
"There aren't many people I trust," he said. "I'm one of the most well-known people in America, and I feel more alone now than I ever have. But I trust you."
"I feel the same. I have since that awful day in Memphis. I've never felt more terrifyingly vulnerable than the moment I heard that shot. You covered my head with your arms. A person doesn't forget something like that."
"I wish I'd found you before George did."
She glanced over at him and smiled.
He was not sure what that meant.
They reached his building and she pulled up on the left side of the one-way street. "Thanks for the ride," Jasper said. He got out. Leaning back into the car, he picked up her shoes from the floor and placed them on the passenger seat. "Great shoes," he said. He slammed the door.
He walked around the car to the sidewalk and came to her window. She lowered the glass. "I forgot to kiss you good night," he said. He leaned into the car and kissed her lips. She opened her mouth immediately. The kiss became passionate in an instant. Verena reached behind his neck and pulled his head inside the car. They kissed with frantic eagerness. Jasper reached into the car and pushed his hand up inside the skirt of her cocktail dress until he could cup the soft cotton-covered triangle between her legs. She moaned and thrust her hips upward against his grasp.
Breathless, he broke the kiss. "Come inside."
"No." She moved his hand away from her groin.
"Meet me tomorrow."
She did not reply, but pushed him away until his head and shoulders were outside the car.
He said again: "Meet me tomorrow?"
She put the shift into gear. "Call me," she said. Then she put her foot down and roared away.
*
George Jakes was not sure whether to believe Jasper Murray's TV show. Even to George it seemed unlikely that President Reagan would support a government that murdered thousands of its own people. Then, four weeks later, The New York Times sensationally revealed that the head of El Salvador's death squad, Colonel Nicolas Carranza, was a CIA agent receiving $90,000 a year from American taxpayers.
Voters were furious. They had thought that after Watergate the CIA had been whipped into line. But it was clearly out of control, paying a monster to commit mass murder.
In his study at home, George finished the papers in his briefcase a few minutes before ten. He screwed the cap back onto his fountain pen, but sat there a few more minutes, reflecting.
No one on the House intelligence committee had known about Colonel Carranza, nor had any member of the equivalent Senate committee. Caught off guard, they were all embarrassed. They were supposed to supervise the CIA. People thought this mess was their fault. But what could they do if spooks lied to them?
He sighed and stood up. He left his study, turning out the light, and stepped into Jack's room. The boy was fast asleep. When he saw his child like this, so peaceful, George felt as if his heart would burst. Jack's soft skin was surprisingly dark, like Jacky's, even though he had two white grandparents. Light-skinned people were still favored in the African American community, despite all the talk about black being beautiful. But Jack was beautiful to George. His head lay on his teddy bear at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. George slipped a hand under the boy's head, feeling soft curls just like his own. He lifted Jack's head a fraction, gently slid the bear out, then carefully rested the head back on the pillow. Jack slept on, oblivious.
George went to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk, then carried it into the bedroom. Verena was already in bed, wearing a nightdress, with a pile of magazines beside her, reading and watching TV at the same time. George drank the milk, then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth.
They seemed to be getting on a little better. They rarely made love, these days, but Verena was more even-tempered. In fact she had not erupted for a month or so. She was working hard, often late into the evenings: perhaps she was happier when her job was more demanding.
George took off his shirt and lifted the lid of the laundry hamper. He was about to drop his shirt in when his eye was caught by Verena's underwear. He saw a lacy black brassiere and matching panties. The set looked new, and he did not recall seeing it on her. If she was buying sexy underwear, why was she not letting him view it? She sure as hell was not shy about such things.
Looking more closely, he saw something even more strange: a blond hair.
He was possessed by a terrible fear. His stomach cramped. He picked the garments out of the hamper.
Carrying them into the bedroom, he said: "Tell me I'm crazy."
"You're crazy," she said; then she saw what he had in his hand. "Are you going to do my laundry?" she quipped, but he could tell she was nervous.
"Nice underwear," he said.
"Lucky you."
"Except that I haven't seen it on you."
"Unlucky you."
"But someone has."
"Sure. Dr. Bernstein."
"Dr. Bernstein is bald. There's a blond hair in your underpants."
Her cappuccino skin went paler, but she remained defiant. "Well, Sherlock Holmes, what do you deduce from that?"
"That you had sex with a man with long blond hair."
"Why does it have to be a man?"
"Because you like men."
"I might like girls too. It's the fashion. Everyone is bisexual now."
George felt profoundly sad. "I note you're not denying that you're having an affair."
"Well, George, ya got me."
He shook his head incredulously. "Are you making light of this?"
"I guess I am."
"So you admit it. Who are you fucking?"
"I'm not going to tell you, so don't ask again."
George was having more and more difficulty suppressing his anger. "You act as if you've done nothing wrong!"
"I'm not going to pretend. Yes, I'm seeing someone I like. I'm sorry to hurt your feelings."
George was bewildered. "How did this happen so quickly?"
"It happened slowly. We've been married more than five years. The thrill is gone, like the song says."
"What did I do wrong?"
"You married me."
"When did you become so angry?"
"Am I angry? I thought I was just bored."
"What do you want to do?"
"I'm not giving him up for the sake of a marriage that hardly exists any longer."
"You know I can't accept that."
"So, leave. You're not a prisoner."
George sat down on her dressing-table stool and buried his face in his hands. He was swamped by a wave of intense emotion, and found himself suddenly taken back to childhood. He recalled the embarrassment of being the only boy in the class who did not have a father. He felt again the agonies of envy he had suffered when he saw other boys with their fathers, throwing a ball, fixing a punctured bicycle tire, buying a baseball bat, trying on shoes. He boiled anew with rage at the man who had, in his eyes, abandoned his mother and him, caring nothing for the woman who had given herself to him, nor for the child that had been born of their love. He wanted to scream, he wanted to punch Verena, he wanted to weep.
He managed to speak at last. "I'm not leaving Jack," he said.
"Your choice," said Verena. She switched off the TV, threw her magazines to the floor, turned out the bedside light, and lay down, facing away from him.
"Is that it?" George said amazedly. "Is that all you hav
e to say?"
"I'm going to sleep. I have a breakfast meeting."
He stared at her. Had he ever known her?
Of course he had. In his heart he had understood that there were two Verenas: one a dedicated activist for civil rights, the other a party girl. He loved them both, and he had believed that with his help they could become one happy, well-adjusted person. And he had been wrong.
He remained there for several minutes, looking at her in the dim light from the streetlamp on the corner. I waited so long for you, he thought; all those years of long-distance love. Then, at last, you married me, and we had Jack, and I thought everything would be all right, forever.
At last he stood up. He took off his clothes and put on pajamas.
He could not bring himself to get into bed beside her.
There was a bed in the guest room, but it was not made up. He went to the hall and got his warmest coat from the closet. He went to the guest room and lay down with the coat over him.
But he did not sleep.
*
George had noticed, some time ago, that Verena sometimes wore clothes that did not suit her. She had a pretty flower-print dress that she put on when she wanted to seem like an innocent girl, though in fact it made her look ridiculous. She had a brown suit that drained her face of color, but she had paid so much for it that she was not willing to admit it was a mistake. She had a mustard-colored sweater that made her wonderful green eyes go muddy and dull.
Everyone did the same, George reckoned. He himself had three cream-colored shirts that he wished would fray at the collars soon so that he could throw them away. For all sorts of reasons, people wore clothes they hated.
But never when meeting a lover.
When Verena put on the black Armani suit with the turquoise blouse and the black coral necklace, she looked like a movie star, and she knew it.
She had to be going to see her paramour.
George felt so humiliated that it was like a gnawing pain in his stomach. He could not subject himself to this much longer. It made him feel like jumping off a bridge.
Verena left early, and said she would be home early, so George figured they were going to meet for lunch. He had breakfast with Jack, then left him with Nanny Tiffany. He went to his rooms in the Cannon House Office Building, near the Capitol, and canceled his appointments for the day.
At twelve noon, Verena's red Jaguar was parked as usual in the lot near her downtown office. George waited down the block in his silver Lincoln, watching the exit. The red car appeared at half past twelve. He pulled into the traffic and followed her.