She caught an answering glint of mockery in Pascal’s eyes. Then Jenkins came out with the name—and the glint of amusement vanished. Pascal’s face became alert. Like Gini, he started to pay attention, and at once.
“John Hawthorne.”
Jenkins leaned back in his chair, watching them. When he was sure they were suitably surprised and intrigued, he continued. A smile played around his lips.
“John Symonds Hawthorne—and the fabled Lise Courtney Hawthorne, his wife. Or to put it another way, His Excellency the United States ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. The American ambassador, and his wife.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast.
“The perfect couple, or so we’re always told. Except as I know, and you know, my dears—there’s no such thing as the perfect couple.”
Gini registered the name, and the implication—and was shocked. She began to concentrate. She had a reporter’s memory, and so did Pascal. As the index cards in her mind started to flick, she saw his expression also become intent. Names, dates, connections, rumors, new and old hints. She saw her own mental process mirrored, checking and rechecking, in his eyes.
Nicholas Jenkins would have liked a more dramatic reaction. He liked to stage-manage his own effects. Now, as if deciding to keep his revelations in reserve, to make them wait, he leaned forward, suddenly businesslike.
“Tell me what you know,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. Pascal, you first.”
Gini watched Pascal closely. The Pascal she once knew did not care much for ambassadors and their society wives. But this Pascal apparently did.
“Very well,” Pascal began. “Politics in the blood. Three generations of public service at least. The Hawthorne money comes from steel and shipyards originally. The younger brother—Prescott—runs the companies now. They were ranked sixth in America on the last Forbes list. John Hawthorne is aged around forty-six, forty-seven—”
“Forty-seven,” Jenkins put in. “He’ll be forty-eight in a couple of weeks.”
“Educated at Groton, then Yale. Went through Yale Law School.” Pascal paused. “He served in Vietnam, which for a man of his background makes him unusual, maybe unique.”
“Not a draft dodger. Unlike others we could all mention…”
“Indeed.” Pascal frowned. “What else? There’s his father, of course. Stanhope Symonds Hawthorne, known to his enemies as S. S. A not inappropriate nickname either, given his political views. Stanhope’s still alive, though he must be eighty at least. The legendary wheeler-dealer, the man at the heart of the political machine. He’s semiparalyzed now, I gather, from the last stroke. In a wheelchair. But he still lords it over that vast place they have in New York State.”
“S. S. Hawthorne,” Jenkins chuckled. “Old S. S. Kind of a cross between King Lear and Martin Bormann. Not the easiest of parents. What about the mother?”
“Long dead.” Pascal shrugged and lit a cigarette. “She was killed in a car crash years back, when Hawthorne was still a child, aged about eight. The father never remarried. He ruled the dynasty single-handed from then on.”
“And the wife? John Hawthorne’s wife?” Jenkins put in silkily.
“The famous Lise? She’s very beautiful, of course. Related to Hawthorne, I think, but distantly. Second cousins, third perhaps—I’d have to check. They married a decade ago. People say S. S. Hawthorne handpicked his son’s bride, but I don’t know about that. John Hawthorne was said to be besotted with her. Anyway, it was a notorious wedding. One thousand plus guests…” A glint of amusement returned to his eyes. “As I recall, the bride wore a thirty-thousand-dollar Saint Laurent dress.”
“Did you cover the wedding?” Jenkins asked.
Gini flinched.
Pascal gave him a cold look. “No,” he replied. “I told you, it was ten years ago. I was in Mozambique at the time. I didn’t cover society weddings then.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Jenkins sounded impatient, unconcerned at his own lack of tact Other people’s past held no interest for him unless they had direct bearing on a story. “So, anything else, Pascal? You hear rumors—it’s your job to hear rumors. Any scandal about the Hawthornes? Any ripples, hints?”
“Nothing at all,” Pascal replied evenly. “But then, it’s some time since I was last in the States. I’ve been working in Europe this past year. Something could have come up in that time. All I hear is that the Hawthornes are unfashionably happy. Two children, both boys. Marital devotion…” A hard note had entered his voice. He shrugged. “Good works and public service. Husband and wife—everywhere seen, everywhere admired. In short, the perfect couple. Just as you said.”
Nicholas Jenkins gave Pascal a sharp glance. Gini felt that he might have liked to make some jibe and then restrained himself. Pascal Lamartine’s temper was well known. Jenkins obviously decided to watch his tongue. He leaned back in his chair, looking secretive and smug. How he loved information, Gini thought. Jenkins nursing a story was like a miser hoarding gold. He turned to her.
“Your turn, Gini. There’s plenty to add.”
“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. Possib
ly 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 c
haracteristic 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.