Edge of Eternity (135 page)

But Reagan’s heart was in the right place, that was the main thing. He was passionately anti-Communist.

Lidka said: ‘And your grandfather was a Senator!’

That did not count for much either. Gus Dewar was in his nineties. After Grandmama died he had moved from Buffalo to San Francisco to be near Woody, Beep and his great-grandson, John Lee. He was long retired from politics. Besides, he was a Democrat, and by Reaganite standards an extreme liberal.

Cam and Lidka walked up a short flight of steps to a red-brick house that looked like a small French chateau, with dormer windows in the slate roof and a white stone entrance topped by a small Greek pediment. This was the home of Frank and Marybell Lindeman, heavyweight donors to Reagan’s campaign funds and multi-million-dollar beneficiaries of his tax cut. Marybell was one of half a dozen women who dominated Washington social life. She entertained the men who ran America. That was why Cam felt lucky to be here.

Although the Lindemans were Republicans, Marybell’s dinners were cross-party affairs, and Cam was expecting to see senior men from both sides here tonight.

A butler took their coats. Looking around the grand hall, Lidka said: ‘Why do they have these terrible paintings?’

‘It’s called Western art,’ Cam said. ‘That’s a Remington – very valuable.’

‘If I had all that money, I wouldn’t buy pictures of cowboys and Indians.’

‘They’re making a point. The Impressionists were not necessarily the best painters ever. American artists are just as good.’

‘No, they’re not – everyone knows that.’

‘Matter of opinion.’

Lidka shrugged: another mystery of American life.

The butler showed them into a wide drawing room. It looked like an eighteenth-century salon, with a Chinese dragon carpet and a scatter of spindly chairs upholstered in yellow silk. Cam realized they were the first guests to arrive. A moment later, Marybell appeared through another door. She was a statuesque woman with a mass of red hair that might or might not have been its natural colour. She was wearing a necklace of what looked, to Cam, like unusually large diamonds. ‘How kind of you to come early!’ she said.

Cam knew this was a reproof, but Lidka was oblivious. ‘I couldn’t wait to see your wonderful house,’ she gushed.

‘And how do you like living in America?’ Marybell asked her. ‘Tell me, what is the best thing about this country, in your opinion?’

Lidka thought for a moment. ‘You have all these black people,’ she said.

Cam suppressed a groan. What the hell was she saying?

Marybell was surprised into silence.

Lidka waved a hand to indicate the waiter holding a tray of champagne flutes, the maid bringing canapés, and the butler, all of whom were African American. ‘They do everything like opening doors and serving drinks and sweeping the floor. In Poland we have no one to do that work – everyone has to do it themselves!’

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 pinstriped 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 he 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 US 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 favour 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 programmes 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 and 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 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 so 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 goodnight,’ 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 on to his fountain pen, but sat there a few more minutes, reflecting.