Spellbinder (20 page)

“We’ll say,” Flournoy answered, “that he can have, say, a hundred thousand dollars. Period. No more.”

Mitchell frowned. “What if he wants more?”

“We’ll tell him there isn’t any more—that, if he persists, we’ll call the police.”

Holloway shook his head. “No. Not the police.”

Flournoy gestured impatiently. “We don’t have to actually do it. But we want him to
think
we’re going to do it, to put pressure on him, Hopefully, we can establish a bargaining situation. He says he wants a half million dollars. That’s probably an opening position. We’ll make a counter offer. Then we’ll bargain—on the theory that, the more he talks, the less dangerous he becomes. Which is, I think, sound strategy, psychologically speaking.”

Dubiously, Mitchell shook his head. Pointing to the letter, he said, “The way I read that, I think he wants more than money.”

Annoyed, Flournoy spoke sharply; “How do you mean, ‘more’? He doesn’t say anything about more.”

“I think he does,” Mitchell said mildly. “He says that he wants to deal with Mr. Holloway personally. To me, that indicates that, in addition to the actual money, he wants to humiliate Mr. Holloway. Maybe he even—” The security chief hesitated. “Maybe he might even intend to harm Mr. Holloway.”

“Well,” Flournoy said sharply, “it won’t come to that, believe me. Because he’s not going to see Austin. That’s non-negotiable. For one thing—” He glanced at Holloway, momentarily apologetic. “For one thing, Austin’s health doesn’t permit it.”

“What if he insists, though?” Mitchell asked quietly.

“If he insists,” Flournoy said, “then he loses. We call the police. Until he’s caught, we’ll keep Austin secure. Under wraps, so to speak. If necessary, we’ll use a rerun on Sunday. We’ll say it’s got something to do with the China Crusade. We’ll suggest some secret negotiations with the Chinese.” Thinking about it, Flournoy nodded, plainly pleased with the strategy. “Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “it could work out to be a plus.” He nodded again, more decisively this time. “It could be a definite plus, if it’s handled right. You know—” He turned to Holloway. “We could suggest a parallel between the secret diplomacy that preceded Nixon’s visit to China.”

Slowly, Holloway shook his head. “We can’t tell the police, Howard. We can threaten to do it. But we can’t actually do it.”

“But—” Flournoy sawed the air with a sharp, impatient wave of his hand. “But we don’t have a choice. If he won’t be reasonable—if, in fact, he’s dangerous—then we’ve
got
to call the police.”

“If he’s arrested,” Holloway said, “and it comes out that he’s my—” He paused, reluctant to put it into words for the first time. “—that’s he’s my illegitimate son, then it’s all over. Everything. It’ll be a matter of public record. And I’ll be finished. We’ll
all
be finished.”

“I don’t agree,” Flournoy retorted. “There might be a scandal, yes. Or, more like it, a
breath
of scandal. But these things can be handled.”

“How?” Mitchell asked, staring steadily at the other man. Mitchell’s broad, muscle-bunched face was impassive. His eyes were opaque, revealing nothing. But the question remained: a hard, uncompromising monosyllable, challenging Flournoy to respond.

“At the moment,” Flournoy said acidly, “I can’t answer that. After all, I’ve only known about this—this new development for a few minutes.” He turned to Holloway, asking: “Is your name on the birth certificate as the father?”

“No. That was part of the deal. The father is listed as unknown. Julian—her brother—worked out the details. Which is how he got on the payroll, all these years.”

“Well, then—” For the first time, Flournoy smiled: a tight, mirthless twisting of his lips, leaving his eyes still cold and calculating. “Well, then, our move is obvious. If he’s arrested, and tries to smear you, then we finesse the issue. Which, to evoke Nixon again, is what happened in Watergate. Or, rather,
didn’t
happen. Instead of covering up, Nixon should simply have admitted that something silly happened. The whole problem would have been defused.”

“This isn’t exactly something silly,” Mitchell said mildly.

“I’m not
saying
it’s something silly,” Flournoy countered sharply; staring coldly at the other man. “I’m simply saying that there are parallels.”

“What kind of parallels?” Unblinking, Mitchell spoke in the same mild, quiet voice, implacably insistent.

“Never mind the goddamn—” Angrily, Flournoy broke off. “Never mind the parallels. All I’m saying is that we should meet the problem head on. We could say, for instance, that the woman was already pregnant when she first met Austin, and that she asked Austin for help. He was touched by her plight, and offered to help her support her child. After all, as I understand it, the woman’s insane. So she lacks credibility. Even if she contests the story, which seems doubtful, she won’t be believed. And her brother, by the sound of it, can be bought. He probably
has
been bought, already. That just leaves James Carson—a criminal.” Flournoy spread his hands. “And who’s going to believe a criminal, if there’s nothing substantive to confirm his story?”

“The problem with that plan,” Holloway said quietly, “is that I’ve sent her hundreds of thousands of dollars, during the past twenty-seven years. That’s a fact. And facts speak louder than words, in matters like this. Especially in the newspapers.”

“But the money can’t be traced.”

“It can’t be
readily
traced. But it can probably be traced if the bank records were subpoenaed.”

“Well,” Flournoy retorted defensively, “I’m not saying it’s a perfect solution. After all, we’ve got a difficult situation on our hands, no question. But it’s a possible solution. It’s one line of attack. And a good line, I think.”

For a long moment the three sat silently, each man staring off in a different direction, thinking. Finally Mitchell cleared his throat. “The best thing that could happen,” he said softly, “is that the police would catch up with him—and kill him.”

S
ITTING WITH HIS HEAD
resting against the back of his tall, leather desk chair, eyes half closed, Holloway watched Mitchell and Flournoy exchange a quick, appraising glance of mutual speculation and evaluation. In the silence that followed, it was clear that, after all the words and all the planning, Mitchell had summed up the sense of the meeting: a payoff might solve the problem, but something more permanent—death—would be a more desirable solution.

As the silence lengthened, neither the manager nor the security chief had looked at Holloway. It was an instinctive reaction—and a proper one. In the Vatican, certain temporal problems required solutions that must be undertaken without the Pope’s knowledge.

In the Temple of Today, over the years, similar problems had been encountered—and would be encountered again. Machinery had been created to handle the solutions. If the Pope had his Vatican guard, Holloway had Mitchell and his staff: five big, tough, gun-carrying thugs, each one dressed in a blue business suit, their uniform. And, in addition, he had Flournoy, the fixer. If Mitchell made a mess, Flournoy would clean it up.

For now, then, the conference had served its purpose. The problem had been defined, and the alternatives discussed: the checkbook solution and the solution by force. Next, Flournoy and Mitchell would discuss ways and means. When their plans were complete, Flournoy would make his report.

So, for now, it was time to call a recess.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Holloway said, “I must call Denise.”

As he said it, Mitchell rose from his chair, saying: “I’ll see whether there’ve been any more calls.” As he spoke, he turned to Flournoy. “Shall we talk later?”

Still seated, Flournoy nodded. It was another of his prerogatives that, in any meeting, Flournoy was the last to leave: the principal baron, remaining behind in the throne room for a few final words.

“Definitely,” Flournoy said. “I’ll come to your office.”

“Good.” Mitchell nodded to Holloway and turned toward the door. On the parquet floor, his footsteps were noiseless. The big, broad-shouldered man was incredibly light on his feet.

Flournoy waited for the door to close, then said, “Of course, the police aren’t going to kill him for us, desirable though that would be. However, if we agree on a price, and if Mitchell delivers the money, he might be lucky enough to get his hands on Carson. If that happened, and he gave Carson the beating of his life, we might not have any more trouble with him.”

On cue, Holloway shook his head. “I don’t think—”

“I’m no authority on violence,” Flournoy put in smoothly, deftly interrupting. “Quite the opposite,” he added, his fastidious smirk implying that he disapproved of anything so elemental, and therefore so uncontrollable. “However, I’ve always understood that people change, after a beating. Especially if they know that the next beating will be worse—and the one after that worse yet. Et cetera, et cetera.”

Holloway waved a hand in a gesture that projected both resignation and tacit agreement. The Pope, in similar circumstances, would offer his ring, casting his eyes demurely up toward heaven.

Also on cue, Flournoy changed the subject: “Did Denise say anything about Katherine when she talked to Marge?”

“No. But she phoned over the weekend and I gather that she’s just about run out of patience. Which, of course, is understandable. I expect she’s calling to say that she’s had enough. It’s been two weeks now. What’d you think? Is it safe to bring Katherine back?”

“I think,” Flournoy said, “that, definitely, The Hour could use her, next Sunday. The mail is starting to show that she’s being missed. People don’t realize that she hasn’t actually spoken more than a few words at a time for years, you know. To some of the old timers, she’s important—symbolically, at least. You know—the symbol of motherhood, and the family. And I don’t have to tell you that, statistically, most of the money comes from the fifty to seventy-year-old group.”

“I wasn’t speaking about The Hour. I was speaking about Katherine’s—legal problems.”

“Things are settling down very nicely,” Flournoy said. “We have a waiver from the girl’s parents.”

Approvingly, Holloway nodded. “That was a good move, Howard. A very good move.”

Gravely, Flournoy inclined his beautifully barbered head: thick brown hair, graying in distinguished streaks at the temples. “Thank you.”

“There won’t be any problem with her parents, then.”

“None,” Flournoy answered confidently.

“What about the press?”

Flournoy considered the question, saying finally, “If we keep Katherine away from the reporters—absolutely away—I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

“So you think I should bring her home.”

Obviously unwilling to commit himself completely, playing the percentages, Flournoy gave a deprecatory shrug. “There’re no guarantees, of course. However, provided we make
very
sure she’s kept under constant surveillance. I think we’re safe. And, obviously, she’s got to come home sometime.”

“All right.” He looked at the phone. “I’ll call Denise and tell her that—”

The phone rang. Exchanging a look of uneasy surprise with his manager, Holloway eyed the phone. Had he neglected to have his calls held? Whether he’d remembered or not, Marge should know better than to interrupt them.

Unless—

After another look, this time one of apprehension, he picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Holloway—” It was Marge, her voice deeply apologetic. “I’m
very
sorry to interrupt you. But it’s Denise again. I should have told you before, but she wasn’t calling from her home. And so she’s been waiting at a neighborhood store—a grocery store, for you to call back. I’m very sorry, sir. I should have mentioned it before. But I thought—” She let it go unfinished, plainly flustered by her own temerity.

“It’s quite all right, Marge. There’s no problem—no problem at all. Put her on, please.”

And, a moment later, Denise was saying, “Dad?”

“Yes, Denise; I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, dear. I thought you were phoning from home. It was a misunderstanding on my part. I’m sorry.”

“Actually,” she said, “it was my fault. I just gave the number. I should have filled Marge in.”

“Is there anything wrong, Denise?”

“Well—” He heard her pause, collecting her thoughts. She’d always done that, even as a child. Denise considered before she spoke. Unlike Elton, who’d never acquired a knack for reflection.

“Well,” she said, “there’s nothing
wrong
, exactly. It’s just that—well—I’ve had it. And Mother’s had it, too. We’re—lately, the past few days—we’re getting on each other’s nerves. And then, now—today—everything came apart. I—I feel badly about it. And I realize that it’s my fault. Or, anyhow, most of it. But the fact is that I just can’t—” Despairingly, she let it go unfinished.

“Denise, it’s all right. It’s been two weeks. I understand. I’ll make arrangements for her to come home, as soon as you like.” As he spoke, his glance crossed Flournoy’s. Still seated, Flournoy nodded toward the door, mutely asking whether he should leave the office. Shaking his head in response, Holloway spoke again into the phone: “I’ll get hold of Elton, and a security man. They’ll make arrangements, and Elton will call you. Is that all right?”

“It’s all right with me, Dad. But I don’t think Mother’s going to like it.”

Aware of a quick, foreboding tightness in his chest, he let a beat pass before he asked: “Why do you say that, Denise?”

“Well, it’s—” Once more she hesitated. Then: “It’s hard to explain. But, if I had to guess, I’d say that Mother had a kind of a crisis here, today. Actually, I’ve seen it coming for days. Two days, at least. As nearly as I can explain it—or speculate about it—she came up here with the idea that I was her last hope. She seemed to feel that she and I could—” A brief, sharp sigh, infinitely regretful. Then: “That she and I could find each other again, maybe. I think she felt, at least subconsciously, that when I took her in, I was accepting her—that we’d somehow restored the mother-daughter relationship we used to have, years ago, before she—she started to drink, and before I—grew up. And then, when she realized that it wasn’t going to happen—that, really, nothing had changed—she started to feel rejected, I guess. Or insecure. Or just plain desperate. Maybe the thought of what she did—of that crippled child—is having a delayed effect. I don’t know. But I do know that she needs help. She needs reassurance—lots of reassurance. Or love. Or whatever you want to call it. She—”