The Folks at Fifty-Eight (40 page)

“Partly because I find myself in your debt.”

“The girl, you mean?”

“Yes. So why did you ignore Daniel Chambers’ instructions and continue looking?”

Hammond shrugged.

“I promised I would look after her. I gave her my word. And, that apart, I don’t like people who address me as though my thoughts and opinions don’t matter.”

Zalesie’s smile broadened.

“Yes, poor old Daniel does have a tendency to infuriate.”

“So where is the girl?”

“I’m not entirely convinced that you are ready for that information, not just yet, but I can assure you that she is safe.”

That wasn’t enough for Hammond.

“Safe from people like Martin Kube?”

It was the second time Hammond had mentioned the name. Zalesie stared impassively back.

“She is completely safe. . . You have my word.”

Hammond could see it was all he was likely to get. He returned to an earlier subject.

“So, what was the rest of the reason?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you found yourself in my debt, but you also said that was only part of the reason. What was the rest of the reason?”

“I find your honesty refreshing. So what did you think of Harold Pratt House?”

Hammond cast his mind back to the building and to two of the ‘folks’ he’d met there.

“I thought the building was bland and boring, but what goes on inside that building isn’t bland or boring. I believe that what goes on inside that building is an outrage to democracy.”

“How wonderfully public-spirited of you, but now I really must go. It was a pleasure to meet you, Gerald Hammond. I look forward to continuing our conversation over dinner. In the meantime, I’m sure Cowdray here will look after you. Do make yourself at home.”

A late lunch of sandwiches and fruit was brought to his room on a tray. Hammond spent the afternoon wandering the grounds, but saw no further sign of the widow Carlisle. With the exceptions of groups of industrious gardeners, and the ever-intrusive army of dark-suited vigilance, he saw no one of interest.

He returned to his room around six and found a note from Cowdray. A dinner suit, dress shirt, and black tie hung on the wardrobe door. The note gave directions to the lounge. Dinner would begin at seven, with drinks. Formal dress wasn’t compulsory, but. . .

Formally-dressed and fashionably-late, Hammond wandered into the main lounge at ten minutes after seven. The room was already crowded with guests. Cigar smoke hung thick in the air, penetrated by chattering small talk and the occasional shriek of feigned outrage or sycophantic laughter. Four or five groups of formally-attired men stood at the bar with drinks in hand and extravagantly-dressed wives or curvaceous significant others hanging on to their every word.

In the far corner, Marcus Allum stood talking with two men. One, Hammond knew vaguely as Carmine Orsini, a short, stocky, and intensely disagreeable individual of Italian-American descent and homosexual persuasion, with a thick moustache and an unashamed reputation for political machination and highly public trysts.

Hammond didn’t know the third man. He was squat and bald, seriously overweight, perspiring profusely, and possibly even uglier than Orsini. Towering above them, the rangy Marcus Allum appeared incongruous. He glanced across as Hammond wandered into the room, but made no effort to acknowledge him.

Hammond headed to the bar and ordered a single malt straight-up. The waiter poured a large measure. Hammond thanked him and began studying the other guests. One in particular caught his eye.

She was strikingly attractive: tall, curvaceous, and oozing sensuality. The dress, in gold lamé, was tight, flimsy and expensive, with the skirt split to the thigh, and the décolleté neckline sculpted to enhance. Shimmering auburn hair was pinned high to accentuate a graceful neck. Matching stiletto-heeled shoes, with gold-painted toenails peeking, performed a similar function for long shapely legs and delightfully rounded buttocks. The gold necklace she wore was simple, to add that essential touch of understated elegance without distracting from her more obvious and licentious charms.

She smiled conceitedly when she saw him watching, and then sashayed over to where he stood. Hammond found one sense breathing in the headiness of her perfume, while another involuntarily gawped. She brushed against him as she leaned forward to order a refill at the bar, and then purred as she turned to more closely study him.

“And you, I presume, must be the immovable object?”

Hammond refocused and regrouped.

“I’m sorry?”

“They tell me you’re incorruptible, Gerald Hammond.”

“I don’t understand. Do I. . . ?”

She looked deep into his eyes.

“It’s the age-old question, Gerald. Which will prevail?”

“I still don’t. . . I’m sorry. . . Uh, do I know you?”

“I’m Theresa Zalesie. I’m the irresistible force.”

Hammond couldn’t argue with that. He smiled politely and babbled an answer.

“How do you do, uh, Mrs Zalesie. . . uh, your husband? Will he be joining us?”

“Theresa, please; and no, Gerald, he’s still tied up in Baltimore. He sends his apologies and asked me to entertain you.” He must have looked disappointed, because she smiled quietly and then said, “I’m sure he’ll catch up with you tomorrow. And so, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Incorruptible, Gerald, an immovable object?”

Hammond shook his head and smiled.

“I used to like to think so, but these days I seem to be anything but.”

“I think you’re just being modest. Either way, I guess we’ll find out soon.”

“We will?”

“Oh, I can guarantee it.” Her gaze briefly scanned the room. “So, who don’t you know?”

His eyes similarly swept the room.

“It would be easier to tell you who I do know.”

“Well you know Marcus, of course, and I presume you know Carmine Orsini?”

Hammond shook his head.

“Not well. I have heard that he works for Daniel Chambers.”

“Daniel put Carmine Orsini into Occupied Territories to be indispensable to Marcus Allum and keep an eye on him; well, you know what a manic-depressive Marcus can be. He’s Daniel’s factotum, and the worst kind of sycophant. He’ll smile to your face, but don’t ever turn around, because you’ll either get a dick in your ass or a knife in your back.”

Hammond grinned.

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Good heavens no, darling. God didn’t see fit to give me an Adam’s apple, and apart from that, just look at him. It’s no wonder he has to take them from behind.”

“What about the man next to him?”

“Oh, that’s Martin Linz. Looks exactly as he is: pig of a man. German, obnoxious, and pugnacious to a fault, but also powerful and dangerous. He’s another one to watch out for.”

As Hammond studied the German, Catherine Schmidt’s description of her former abuser came to mind.

“Did you say Martin Linz? Don’t you mean Martin Kube?”

“If you already knew, darling, why bother asking?”

“I didn’t know. It was an educated guess.”

She studied him with flashing eyes. She seemed impressed.

“I see, devious and manipulative. I think you’re going to fit in nicely around here.”

She then went on to discuss the rest of the gathering, taking care to point out those in positions of particular power or influence before cataloguing individual strengths and weaknesses. She saved the most interesting two for last.

“The man in the cream dinner jacket, with the pretty little dark-haired wife who can’t keep her eyes off you, is Jonathan Hudson. When he’s not snorting cocaine or chasing muscular young men around Washington, Jonathan is one of Forrestal’s key advisors. Wife’s name is Wendy. He stays with her because she has the money. She stays with him because he has the contacts. She’s supposed to be good in bed. He’s supposed to be brilliant out of it. I always found them complete bores: in and out of bed.”

“Forrestal? You mean, Secretary of the Navy, James Forrestal?”

“Conrad likes to ensure he gets the right advice. The heavy-set guy with the beard standing next to him is Peter, Peter Martel; sharp as a whip and just as flexible. He’s an advisor to Patterson. The woman with him is Stella. I don’t know her second name. I don’t think Peter does.” Hammond stood, quietly admiring the woman. Theresa Zalesie offered him some advice. “Forget it, sweetie. She negotiates the price going in and you couldn’t afford her on your salary.”

Hammond grinned broadly. He was warming to Theresa Zalesie, and not solely because of her more obvious charms.

“Presumably there’s someone around here who advises Byrnes?”

She paused, and then turned to study him with that same admiring look.

“Clever boy. . . He’s currently down in Baltimore, with Conrad. His name’s Theodore Hibbard. Conrad calls the three of them his great triumvirate.”

Hammond nodded a grudging admiration for Zalesie’s deviousness. James Byrnes and Robert Patterson were respectively the U.S. Secretaries of State and War. They, together with James Forrestal and Truman’s own advisor, made up the National Intelligence Authority, the overseers of America’s new Central Intelligence Group. With trusted advisors to three in his pocket, and himself advising the fourth, Conrad Zalesie had manoeuvred himself into a position where he could significantly influence both the fledgling U.S. intelligence service and U.S. foreign policy.

“So why are you telling me all this? Did your husband tell you to tell me?”

“Of course. He wanted to see how quickly you’d work it out. He’ll be impressed. Conrad likes you. He trusts you, and he doesn’t trust many. I think he sees the two of you working together.”

“And why would I be interested in doing that?”

She wiggled and giggled in an obvious and coquettish way.

“Oh, you’d be amazed at the fringe benefits. But now I have to mingle. We’ll catch up later, I promise.” She gave a mischievous laugh, and then called across to where the notorious Wendy Hudson stood overtly admiring Hammond. “Wendy, come and meet Gerald Hammond. He’s a very good friend and he’s dying to meet you.” She turned back and whispered, “You will save some energy for later, won’t you, darling?”

Hammond took almost half-an-hour to extricate himself from the cloying attentions of Wendy Hudson. The conversation had centered on her, and been interspersed with juvenile double-entendres and crude references to a history of infidelity. She clearly intended adding him to a shamelessly long list. He found himself feeling sorry for her. She was an attractive and vivacious woman, infected with all the pretence of socialite Washington and trapped in a loveless marriage.

Whenever he had managed to steer the conversation away from social tittle-tattle and crude innuendo, she had proved herself intelligent and articulate. She could do so much better, and be so much happier; it was a shame.

When she had bluntly asked him to take her back to his room, he hadn’t bluntly declined. Hammond had recent and bitter experience of cruel rejection and held too much regard for feelings. He apologized and said he needed to discuss some important matters with Marcus Allum before Allum left for Washington. He saw her disappointment and added that he hoped to catch her later.

As Wendy Hudson wandered back to her husband with pride intact and sexual antennae on scan, he moved over to where a pained-looking Angela Carlisle stood sandwiched between Martin Kube’s lumbering boorishness and the pretentious effeminacy of Simon Cowdray.

She looked hugely relieved at his arrival. She introduced him to Kube, who grunted a greeting of sorts, then turned his back to summon a waiter and order a refill.

Hammond took the opportunity to study the man more closely. He seemed slightly the worse for drink, and intent on furthering that condition. If Kube did know the whereabouts of Catherine Schmidt, this could be an ideal opportunity to find out.

Simon Cowdray was also watching the boorish Kube, and apparently realizing the potential for careless indiscretion.

“Uh, Mr Linz. I wonder if I might have a word, in private?”

Kube was, equally clearly, in no mood to reason.

“No, you may not. Go away, I am busy.”

“Sir, I really do think that we should. . .”

“Did you hear me? I said go away. You are hired help around here. You do as you are told. You are a servant, a lackey. Is that not what the English call people like you? I am one of the original five, one of the original five Children of Etzel. Never forget it.”

Fury briefly flitted across the Englishman’s face, fury and something else. It was a coldness to go with the fury, the cold, unfeeling and controlled anger of a professional killer. Hammond saw it and read it for what it was. However, by the time Cowdray gave his answer, that look had been replaced by the more usual and servile façade.

“Actually, sir, I believe the term was originally French.”

Kube may or may not have seen that look. Either way, he didn’t seem to care.

“I could not give a shit. Get out.”

Cowdray turned away and then spoke to Hammond and Angela Carlisle.

“Mrs Carlisle, Mr Hammond. Please excuse me. I have duties to attend to.”

Cowdray walked away, but stopped at the door and whispered to one of the waiters. The man listened and nodded. Cowdray seemed satisfied. He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Kube sniffed his disdain.

“Faggot!” He turned to Hammond. “Is that not what you call them here?”

Hammond ignored him and began making small talk with Angela Carlisle. She moved closer and gazed up at him with eyelashes fluttering. Hammond took another scotch and asked what she wanted to drink. She stopped fluttering the eyelashes and openly vamped him with eyes held wide. She said that she would have whatever he was having. Hammond glanced to where the predatory Theresa was mingling. He smiled an impish smile and then ordered Angela Carlisle a scotch.