Lovers and Liars Trilogy (8 page)

“There certainly is.” She hesitated. “I should say that I’ve met John Hawthorne, of course.”

The second the words were said, she regretted them. The “of course” had slipped past her guard. Across the table, Pascal picked up on it at once.

“Of course,” he said. “Is Hawthorne another friend of your father’s?”

There was a nasty little silence. Jenkins, who always enjoyed tension between others, gave a smirk. Gini looked away. The tone in which Pascal had spoken, lazily disguising what she knew to be a reprimand of sorts, hurt her. She waited a second, then Jenkins intervened.

“Am I missing something here?” he asked in an arch voice. “Is there some little mystery, Gini? Does your father know him?”

“He may well have run into him.” She gave a quick dismissive shrug. “No, that’s not the link. As I’m sure you know, Nicholas, there are other contacts.”

“
Thought
so.” Jenkins beamed. “Go on.”

“There’s very little to say. I’ve met Hawthorne precisely twice. Once, years ago, when he was first a senator. This was before he married, when I was still at school. I was about thirteen, and I talked to him for about ten minutes—less.”

“This was in England? He was making a trip to England?” Jenkins said.

“That’s right. The second time was last year, when he first arrived at the embassy here. I went to one of the parties given to welcome him. Again, I spoke to him very briefly. He was busy. There were about two hundred guests.”

“Busy?”

“He was working the room, Nicholas.”

“Efficiently?”

“Oh, very efficiently.”

“And the lovely Lise, she was there too?”

“Yes. But I never had a chance to speak to her. She was surrounded by admirers all night.”

“Interesting. Interesting…” Jenkins leaned back in his chair. Pascal said nothing, merely sat and watched her in a thoughtful way. Gini could feel something emanate from that cool, watchful regard. It could have been hostility, it could have been dislike. It made her nervous and self-conscious, and also determined. Let him remain silent; she refused to let him put her off.

“Wake up, Gini.” Jenkins had leaned forward again. “I’m longing to know…. Impressions?”

“Of Hawthorne? Very little. The obvious things. He’s exceptionally good-looking. He’s as charming as most people say. I’ve heard he can be both kind and generous. He works a room ruthlessly, but then, a lot of politicians do.”

“Fine. Fine.” Jenkins shifted in his seat. “Background, then. Is there anything you want to add to what Pascal’s just said?”

She paused once more and glanced across at Pascal. His rundown on Hawthorne had puzzled her. Accurate it might be, but it had skirted the most important facts. Could Pascal’s new work have made him obsessed with trivia—with society weddings and designer gowns? She could not believe that. Possibly he had been mocking Jenkins’s pomposity. She could not tell. The fact remained that Pascal, whose journalistic instincts had once been so sharp, had ignored the most important and most curious aspect of John Hawthorne’s meteoric career. Now, why should he do that?

“I’ll stick to the political background,” she said. “We ought to start with a puzzle, a mystery, if you like. Okay, so John Hawthorne is now the U.S. ambassador here. That’s great. But let’s remember that in his terms, that’s a demotion. Five years ago John Hawthorne was one of the best-known senators in the country and he seemed poised for greater power still. Back in 1989, 1990, all the forecasters agreed: Hawthorne was all set to be the next Democratic candidate for the presidency.”

“Precisely.” Jenkins smiled broadly. “And given his clout, his wealth, and his charisma, he might even have made it to the White House. If, that is, he could be persuaded to run. And no one anticipated any difficulties about
that.
Fascinating, isn’t it?” Jenkins waited in silence, savoring the implications while he performed an elaborate ritual of cigar lighting.

“Fine,” he said finally. “John Hawthorne might have been the 1992 Democratic candidate for the presidency. He might even have made it to the Oval Office. But he didn’t. Gini, go on.”

“John Hawthorne’s part of a machine,” Gini began. “A family machine. There are parallels with the Kennedys obviously, though in Hawthorne’s case, no Irish connections. His descent is Catholic Scots. He was the third generation to make it to the Senate. He was groomed by his father for political office from his earliest childhood. Law school, a serving officer in Vietnam, congressman, senator—it was a smooth, perfect, unimpeded ascent. He’s rich, smart, charismatic, driven. Master of the sound bite. Perfect on TV. Almost unnatural good looks. A tough campaign record…In a word, perfect modern presidential material. Hawthorne as the Democratic candidate in 1992—that was the prediction—” She paused. “Only something went wrong. Hawthorne never announced his candidacy. He resigned from the Senate early in 1991. He disappeared from the political map for an entire year to much rejoicing in Arkansas. Clinton had a clean run.”

“Reasons?” Jenkins said.

“It was never explained. That’s what’s so curious. Why resign from the Senate? He had powerful backers in the Democratic party—why disappoint them? Count the column inches on that. And the answer? No one knows. There was no scandal, no hint of skeletons in the closet, no smoking bimbos, no bribes, no unfortunate connections with organized crime. Nothing. Just, one day he was there—the next he was gone.”

“There were reasons given,” Pascal interrupted. “He put out a statement. One of the children, the younger son, had been seriously ill.”

“Oh, sure. And Hawthorne wanted to spend more time with his family as a result. Don’t tell me you swallowed that.”

“Possibly not.”

“If you did, Pascal, you’re in a minority of one.”

“Children, children, please. Do I detect a note of hostility here?” Jenkins, whose guiding principle was divide and rule, made a calming gesture. “Let’s stick to the point,” he said. “Fast-forward—we haven’t got all day. Hawthorne resigns from the Senate, as you say. He stays well clear of the subsequent presidential election. One month after the inauguration, what do we find? John Hawthorne kissing hands with the Queen. His Excellency the ambassador. A
very
unexpected appointment, Gini, don’t you agree? Run that one past me. Explain
that
as a career move.”

Gini shrugged. “I can understand why the Clinton administration might offer him the job—I can see them in the Oval Office saying how do we get rid of Hawthorne, how do you bury America’s crown prince? I can see that. But for Hawthorne to accept the posting to London? All his life this man’s been like a heat-seeking missile, straight on target to the White House—”

“And then he veers off,” Jenkins cut in. “Of course, one could say that being ambassador to Britain is a prestigious post. Other people even saw it as an effective launchpad to the presidency—Joseph Kennedy, for one.”

“Maybe so. But that was over fifty years ago. Times change. Now ambassadorships go to yesterday’s men, or women. As a reward for services rendered. In American terms right now, Hawthorne’s invisible. Ambassadors don’t make headlines. All this posting does for him is delay any political comeback. It cuts him off from the power center. I’d say he has to have accepted that. He knows it’s over. Maybe he wants it to be over. Politically, Hawthorne’s all washed up.”

There was a pause. Jenkins savored the moment, then seemed to decide he had held out long enough. He leaned forward, wafting cigar smoke at them both.

“Suppose I told you that Hawthorne wasn’t washed up? Suppose I told you that Hawthorne was having second thoughts, that he now wished he’d never abandoned that golden career?”

“I’d say he’s left it too late.”

“Are you sure?” Jenkins smiled. “After all, make the calculations: Let’s suppose Clinton enjoys office for two full terms. That takes us to the year 2000. By which time John Hawthorne will be in his mid-fifties. He’s a man, in any case, who looks a good ten years younger than his age. Would you rule him out of the presidential running then—a man of his looks and abilities, a man with his connections? If you would, I’m not sure I’d agree.”

“Okay,” Gini said. “I agree. Up to a point. It’s feasible Hawthorne could make a comeback further down the road. But not without reestablishing his American base. Not if he remains here too long. If he does that, he’s dead in the water.” She paused. Jenkins was watching her, smiling. Gini, who knew his techniques, realized that she had been given, and missed, a clue.

“
Connections
,” she said, leaning forward. “Oh, I see, Nicholas. You mean it might not be just a question of Hawthorne’s own ambitions? You mean there are other people promoting Hawthorne’s political future as well?”

“Well, my dear Gini, I’d say so, wouldn’t you? His father, for one. That goes without saying, and old S. S. should never be underestimated, wheelchair or no. I’ve heard other names mentioned as well, powerful names representing powerful vested interests. Still—”

He broke off, and leaned back in his chair, drawing on his cigar. “We don’t need to concentrate on those details, not for now. I didn’t bring you both here today to discuss them. John Hawthorne may or may not have an illustrious political future. Right now, he’s one of his country’s most senior ambassadors, a man with an unblemished reputation. And—unlike you—I have been hearing stories about him. Very interesting stories. Revelatory, you might say. Your job will be to discover if they’re true. If they are, then Hawthorne will have no political future at all.”

He paused, looking from Pascal to Gini. The end of his cigar glowed. Gini hesitated, puzzled by Pascal’s silence. She glanced across at him, then turned back to Jenkins.

“You mean Hawthorne has an enemy?”

“Oh, very much so.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean much. Men in Hawthorne’s position breed enemies.”

“I do so agree,” Jenkins said smoothly. “An enemy means nothing—unless that enemy could come up with something John Hawthorne hoped to keep well buried. Something never rumored, never whispered about before. Now, if an enemy could do that—”

“They’d go straight to an American newspaper.” It was Pascal who cut in, making Gini jump. He was watching Jenkins closely.

“They’d go straight to
The New York Times,
Nicholas, or
The Washington Post.
Their approach might be indirect, devious. But that’s where they’d go. Not a British newspaper. You know that.”

“True. Very true.” Jenkins remained unruffled. “I agree. That’s precisely what they’d do. Unless they happened to be in England at the time. Unless it just so happened that they had an English contact, someone whom they had reason to trust.”

There was another silence. Jenkins continued to sit there, smiling at them both. He had every intention, Gini could see, of spinning this out. Silently, she cursed him for this characteristic labyrinthine approach. Jenkins parted with information as reluctantly as a glutton parted with food. The story, she saw, would have to be prised out.

“Okay,” she said. “Let me get this straight, Nicholas. You’ve heard rumors about Hawthorne. Yes? There’s something he wants to hide. Fiscal? Some tax scam?”

“No.”

“Influences, then. Friends in the wrong places? Electoral bribes? Some linkup with organized crime?”

“Nothing like that. Not a hint. In that respect, Hawthorne’s the original Mr. Clean.”

“Come on, Nicholas. I’m getting sick of guessing games.”

“One more try.”

“All right. Sex. It’s something sexual he wants to hide.”

“Getting warmer. Go on.”

“Well, if it’s sexual, it’s predictable….”

“The best stories often are.”

“A mistress? An illegitimate child? Call girls? Unwise moments with blondes…”

“You’re right about the blondes.” Jenkins’s smile broadened. “They
have
to be blondes, or so I hear….”

He broke off while they sat in silence, Jenkins enjoying their suspense. Pink, plump, and magisterial, he continued to puff at his cigar like a benign Buddha enthroned on a chair.

Finally Gini said, “
Have
to be blondes? That’s an odd way of putting it.”

“Oh, no. It’s precise.” Jenkins beamed. “When their services are arranged, he stipulates blondes. He has other requirements as well. Hawthorne’s extremely specific, or so I hear.”

“Get to the point, Nicholas.”

“Of course, Pascal. Blondes. Hawthorne needs blondes. But the ways in which he needs them are unusual to say the least. Even to me, and I’ve heard it all.
First
”—he held up one finger—“he requires a blonde, a hired blonde, with absolute regularity. One a month, always on the same day. Always on a Sunday, as it happens—the third Sunday of any calendar month.

“
Second
,” he went on, “the blonde must remain silent at all times. During the…sessions they have together, she must not speak or cry out while in his presence. In view of what happens, that must present difficulties, but those are the rules.

“
Third,
the meetings last for exactly two hours and a costume is provided for the girl. Much of that costume will be removed. Except for one item. The girl is provided with long black leather gloves, and the gloves must be worn at all times. The girl is never permitted to touch Hawthorne, except with a gloved hand.”

“
Gloves?
” Pascal said, and Gini caught his reaction.

Jenkins, launched now, did not; he pressed on. “
Fourth,
generally speaking, the girl is there to obey Hawthorne’s commands. Some of those commands are…unusual, shall we say? Though each to his own, of course. Occasionally the girls have required medical attention afterward. It’s partly for that reason, I imagine, that they’re so well paid. The going rate was twenty thousand dollars a session in America. It’s ten thousand pounds here. No girl is ever used twice.”

“Twenty thousand dollars?” Gini stared at him in disbelief.

“Generous, isn’t it?” Jenkins smiled. “Maybe that accounts for the fact that none of these girls has gone running to the tabloids. There is another reason, of course. In view of what’s happened. They’re too scared.”