The Folks at Fifty-Eight (43 page)

“Yes, sir.” He suddenly remembered. “I’m sorry, sir, but there was a telephone call, from Mr Hammond. I didn’t think that I should disturb you, sir. Should I call him back?”

Zalesie’s scowling features suddenly broke into the briefest of smiles.

“I knew that man had character. Yes, call him back, would you?”

It was nine on that same evening. Gerald Hammond sat in the corner of the hotel bar. He sipped at a ginger ale as he waited, his eyes fixed on the door to the main lobby.

He had purposely chosen the corner table. It stood in a poorly-lit area and allowed him an uninterrupted view of both lobby and emergency exits. As well as offering a good field of fire, the corner table also offered the chance of escape through the staff exit to the side of the bar. Walls on two sides and behind prevented any possibility of a flanking attack. Intervening tables and chairs provided additional cover. Hammond had chosen his ground well, and the allotted time would see the largely unpopular bar at its busiest.

He felt the comforting bulk of the Beretta in his right-hand pocket, and had the Colt lightly taped beneath the table. He held a license for the Beretta and hadn’t fired it in months. If uniformed authority arrived, he’d show them the Beretta. Should Zalesie’s hoods arrive and he need the extra firepower, the ballistically-incriminating Colt lay hidden and available.

However, and for all his meticulous preparation, Hammond knew if it came to using either, it would undoubtedly signal the end of a promising State Department career.

He studied Zalesie’s arrival through the vertical blinds and saw he was alone. The hotel concierge directed the Lithuanian to the bar.

Zalesie gazed idly around before greeting Hammond with a knowing smile.

“You’re a tactician, Mr Hammond.”

“And you’re a strategist, Mr Zalesie.”

“You understand something of strategy?”

“I’ve read something of Clausewitz. Is war a continuation of politics, or are politics only the result of wars that fail?”

“That’s good. I must remember that. Clausewitz was a Prussian, you know? We’re related by blood, Prussians and Lithuanians, or at least some of us are.”

“Now that I didn’t know.”

“Oh yes, it’s quite true. Did you want to search me before I sit down?”

Hammond shook his head and nodded to the tell-tale bulge in Zalesie’s jacket.

“There’s no need. I can pull the Beretta a hell of a lot quicker than you could get to whatever that is. And if anybody comes through either of those doors with a gun in their hand, you’ll be dead in the same second.”

The smile didn’t waver as Zalesie gently mocked the wary Hammond.

“I would appear I am in the company of a genuine western gunslinger. Good heavens, Mr Hammond, is there no end to your talents?” The smile faded as he offered a guarantee. “I do assure you that nobody of my acquaintance is joining us, Mr Hammond. As for the jacket. . .” He opened the coat for Hammond to see the cause of the bulkiness, which appeared to be a large silver cigar case.

Zalesie took out the case and flipped open the lid. “I have no weapons, Mr Hammond, I never carry them. I have merely come here to talk, and to apologize for the outrageous and unauthorized behaviour of members of my staff. I had this made for me by a backstreet silversmith in Havana. It is the bane of my tailor’s life. Would you care for a cigar?”

Hammond grinned and indicated the seat. Zalesie nodded and sat down. Hammond declined the cigar and offered him a drink.

“Thank you, no. And so, how do we put this unfortunate incident behind us?”

Hammond carefully studied the expression that studied him, before coming to the only possible and rational conclusion.

“You give me your word that you had nothing to do with the attempt on my life? You punish the people responsible, and you promise there will be no further problems of that nature?”

“I have punished the man responsible, and not merely for that.”

“Kube?”

Zalesie nodded.

“Yes, Mr Hammond. Martin Kube won’t rape any more little girls.”

Hammond suddenly realised what must have happened. He asked the question, not sure if the answer would leave him feeling elated or guilty.

“He’s dead?”

Zalesie nodded again.

“Catherine, she means that much to you?”

“Yes, she does. As for the rest, you have my word.”

“As a Lithuanian Count?”

“No, Mr Hammond. As a gentleman.”

Hammond nodded an acceptance.

“Might have been interesting. your total warfare against my guerrilla tactics.”

“Let us not talk any more of Clausewitz and warfare. Let us talk of alliance.” Zalesie leaned closer. “Stanislav Paslov told you there was a man in the State Department working for Beria. Using simple elimination, we can presumably discount you and me, and poor Alan Carlisle is past such underhandedness. That leaves a great many people, but not too many suspects.

“Beria has thrown his punch and his guard is down. I want you to find his agent in the State Department, and then I want you to give me his name.”

Hammond recalled his meetings with Stanislav Paslov and Alan Carlisle.

“Paslov also told me that Beria had another man, in the Manhattan Project. Alan Carlisle believed there were more than one.”

“I am aware of that, but let us put our own house in order first. Find Beria’s mole in the State Department and I will make life a good deal easier for you.”

Hammond bristled.

“I’m not available for bribery. I thought I had made that clear.”

“You did. That is precisely why you are the obvious choice. You have ability and integrity, and you’re nobody’s man. What worthier combination could I or the State Department ask?”

“You once told me that everyone is somebody’s man.”

“Look upon this as an opportunity to disprove my theory.”

“And if I do find him, why would I give him to you? Why wouldn’t I just hand him over to the FBI?”

“Because Mr John Edgar Hoover and his FBI people would undoubtedly use whoever this individual is as a stick to beat us with. I will simply deal with the problem.”

Hammond could see the logic, but was nonetheless suspicious.

“So just whose side are you on, Mr Zalesie?”

The smile reappeared.

“Why, yours, of course.”

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

“I am not an American by birth, Mr Hammond, but I believe in capitalism and democracy and the American way. I believe in them as passionately as anyone.”

“And what about the rule of law?”

“Sometimes that needs a little help.”

They met at their usual table in the cocktail bar of the Washington Hotel. Emma raised her martini high and congratulated him on one of the fastest promotions in State Department history. Hammond told her it was only acting unpaid. The lack of a formal appointment hadn’t bothered Carpenter, though. Since the memo arrived, he had been like a dog with two tails. Hammond was happy for him. Davis Carpenter had waited a long time for promotion. It was a shame about the circumstance, but an ill wind and all that.

Emma seemed more buoyed than Hammond, but said the news had also confused her. She said she could understand Carpenter’s promotion, but asked why they had promoted Hammond so quickly, adding that he had only been there five minutes and there had to be some seriously jealous people in the department.

Hammond admitted the atmosphere in the department hadn’t been great, but nobody had spoken directly to him. He thought Conrad Zalesie had something to do with it.

She asked about Zalesie. Hammond agreed with Marcus Allum. Zalesie was dangerous. He changed the subject and asked what she had been doing. Her answer surprised him.

“I’ve hardly been out of the apartment since I saw you last, most unlike me. Perhaps I’m coming down with something, or maybe I’ve run out of steam. Maybe you’ve become the interesting one in the marriage. Did you ever think of that?”

“What marriage?”

She looked into his eyes and spoke softly.

“It took me a long time to discover that love isn’t about beautiful bodies and perfect smiles and shattering orgasms. It’s about comfort and security, and a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach. It’s about caring more for the happiness of others than your own. It’s about all the gentleness I get from you.”

“You want me back?”

She didn’t answer, and changed the subject. She mentioned bumping into Morton Simmonds a few days earlier. When Hammond asked if the collision had been pelvis first, she laughed and said he shouldn’t be bitter about the past. Morton Simmonds was a decent man and a friend, but not her type. She said Alan Carlisle’s death had upset him, and, rumour had it, he was drinking heavily. She said from what she had seen the rumours were right, but added that she had always liked Morton Simmonds and felt saddened by his decline into alcoholism.

When Hammond spoke of Simmonds’ reputation for alcohol and women she agreed, but said he had shown a marked degeneration since Alan Carlisle’s death. She said, when she saw him, it was only late afternoon and he was already three-parts gone. She had been on her way home. Simmonds had been heading back to the bar. She took him for a coffee instead.

“So why are you telling me this?”

“Because he said he knew why they killed Alan Carlisle. He wouldn’t say more. He seemed a bit uncomfortable and told me to forget he’d said anything. Then he scuttled off to the bar.”

Hammond was suddenly worried.

“And you make damn sure you do as he said, Emma. You’re not to mention he said anything; not to anyone, do you hear me?”

“All right, I know, I’m not stupid. I only told you in confidence.”

“Not even in confidence, not to anyone. I mean it. So where is this bar?”

“Remember when we used to go to Sammy’s Bar?”

“In Georgetown?”

“Yeah, It’s just up from there. They say it’s seedy, so I didn’t offer to join him. They also say he’s there night after night, drinking himself into a stupor. Oh no, Gerald, this is our evening.”

“I’ll get a cab. I won’t be long. I’ll see you at the restaurant. I’m sorry. It’s important.”

“The table’s booked for eight-thirty, no later.”

“I’ll be there, I promise. I can’t be late tonight. I’ve got a report to write for Carpenter; flexing his newly-promoted muscles, I guess. He wants to discuss it in the morning.”

“God almighty! Reports? You’re not becoming boring again, are you, darling?”

“This isn’t boring. It’s about the meeting in Frankfurt. He wants to know if we should target Paslov as a defector. . . Idiot! Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you that.”

She gave a mischievous grin.

“I wouldn’t have thought so. You’re just lucky I’m so discreet these days. Mind you, if I do ever meet a tall, dark, handsome Russian, who knows what I might say?”

“Don’t even joke about it. I’ll be there at eight-thirty.”

“You’d better be. I’m not waiting.”

“You’ll wait.”

“Oh will I? And why are you suddenly so sure of yourself?”

He thought back to the dinner at Zalesie’s and smiled enigmatically. She didn’t realize how much he was in demand these days. She looked quizzically at him, but he didn’t elaborate and promised that he’d be back at eight-thirty.

“Morton Simmonds, I presume. Mind if I sit?”

When Hammond finally found the bar, Morton Simmonds was already halfway down the label on his first bottle of Tennessee whiskey. A bleary-eyed Simmonds grunted an unintelligible response. He refused the offer of a handshake, and the scowl, rebuffing this clearly-unwelcome intrusion, was similarly less than encouraging.

“Who says I’m Simmonds?”

A Zippo lighter rested alongside a pack of cigarettes on the counter. Hammond pointed to the initials M.S. clearly engraved in orange on the metal casing, alongside another engraving of a drunk leaning against a lamp-post.

“Somebody’s got a sense of humour.”

“For all you know that could stand for Max Steiner.”

“Yeah, but you don’t strike me as the musical type. From the look of you, I’d say the chinking of bottle against glass is as musical as you get. Could be Max Schmeling, I suppose, but then I’d have seen your picture on Conrad Zalesie’s study wall.”

Simmonds stared pointedly at the bar.

“All right, so you know certain people. . . Whad’yer want?”

Hammond studied the emaciated features and bleary-eyed stare with some concern, seeing the drunk personified, and not sure he hadn’t wasted the trip. Then he grinned affably and went for the jugular.

“They tell me you’re finished, Morton. Too many high-profile affairs, too few success stories, and too much of that.” He nodded to the bottle behind the counter. “They also do tell that Jack Daniels lived to be sixty-five. Right now, I can’t see you doing the same.”

“And just who the hell might you be?”

“My name is Hammond. I work for Marcus Allum at the State Department. I need your help.”

“You work for that conniving bastard Allum, and you’re looking for help from me? Well, you’re an optimist, I’ll give you that.”

The look of jaded indifference had changed to one of hostility. Hammond sought to reassure. He said his seeking out Simmonds had nothing to do with Allum. If Allum ever discovered that he and Simmonds had spoken, he would probably fire him.

Simmonds carefully studied him, as if trying to assess the truth behind the claim. With study complete, he shrugged his shoulders and drained the glass, then called along the bar for a refill. Finally, he returned his attention to Hammond.

“All right; so I’ve heard of you, and it’s not all bad. What is it you want?”

“I want you to tell me about Alan Carlisle.”

Simmonds didn’t reply immediately, but reached instead for the pack of cigarettes. He took one and lit it with an ostentatious flick of the lighter’s flywheel. A long intake of breath dragged the toxic product deep, before he slowly exhaled, casually tossed both cigarette pack and lighter on to the counter and growled,