Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ God knows how many weekends and holidays to get it as they wanted, had somehow squeezed the renovation between her professorship at Georgetown and his job on the Hill.

      When he went upstairs she was still half asleep.

      ‘See you tonight.’

      She rolled over so he could kiss her.

      ‘Be good.’

      The morning was already warm; he left the house, crossed Independence, and turned left on East Capitol Street. In front of him the white dome of the Hill glistened in the early light. By seven thirty-five he had collected a coffee and doughnut from the basement canteen and was at his desk checking his electronic mail. At eight-thirty he briefed the morning meeting.

      ‘Senator Donaghue’s in New York for a fund-raising breakfast. He’ll be back at ten. Terry to collect him from National. Ten-thirty he meets a business delegation, Jonathan has the details. At eleven he’s in the Senate; Barbara in charge of TV and radio interviews after. Eleven forty-five he’s at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial; family paying their respects.’

      For years now the families of the MIAs, the servicemen missing in action in Vietnam, had been campaigning in the hope that some of them might still be alive. Donaghue had championed their rights for greater information on reported sightings whilst cautioning against excessive hope. Six months earlier photographic evidence had been produced supposedly showing MIAs in a village in North Vietnam. One week ago they had been proven to be forgeries. Now the family of one of the men was coming to pay their respects at the polished black granite memorial in Constitution Gardens, and had asked Donaghue to join them, even though they were not from Donaghue’s state.

      One of the lawyers raised his hand. ‘What chance of some coverage?’

      ‘ABC, CBS and NBC feeding to local affiliates,’ the press secretary told them. ‘CNN there as well unless something else breaks, plus radio and newspapers.’

      Pearson nodded, then continued.

      ‘Twelve-thirty, Senate vote, Maureen accompanying him. One o’clock lunch at the National Democratic Club.’

      There was a similar list of engagements for the afternoon and early evening, the final one at seven and lasting half an hour. And after that the meeting that wasn’t on any schedule. The one they called the war council.

      Mitchell woke at seven, the sun streaming through the windows of the houseboat and the sound of a helicopter beating up the Potomac. It was a Gangplank joke that you could always tell when something was up and running by the number of choppers coming up the river and banking left for the Pentagon and right for the White House. Just as you could tell how much communication traffic was going out of the Pentagon – and therefore whether something was going down – by the television interference, and whether the White House was working overtime by the number of late-night pizza deliveries.

      The photographs were by the upturned steel helmet next to the Marine Corps badge, more by the television.

      Don’t forget, he told himself.

      He showered, dressed, had breakfast on the sun deck, then took the metro rail to Union Station and walked to Dirksen Building.

      The staff rooms of the Senate Banking Committee were on the fifth floor: three secretaries and a cluster of offices, some staffers having their own rooms and others sharing, computers and telephones on the desks, and the computers linked to the various databases to which the committee had access.

      The desk he had been assigned was in a corner of one of the open plan areas, beneath a window. It was slightly cramped, but that was standard on the Hill, despite what people thought, and at least he could look out of the window. It was a pity he didn’t have more privacy, but everyone in the office was on the same side, and if he needed to make any really secure calls he could do them from somewhere else.

      He fetched himself a coffee from the cafeteria and settled down.

      Money laundering or banking, Pearson had said, as long as it was something with which the ordinary man or woman in the street would identify. And nothing too official yet, by which Pearson had meant nothing too obvious. Just a trawl, see what there was around. More than just a trawl, though; make sure he had enough evidence so that when Donaghue officially launched the enquiry he already knew it would produce results. The announcement of the enquiry timed to give Donaghue extra publicity once he’d thrown his hat into the presidential ring, and the results ready for when he and his advisers decided to use them. Everything planned, nothing left to chance.

      Mitchell sat forward in the chair and began the calls.

      ‘Dick, this is Mitch Mitchell. Doing a job for the Senate Banking Committee and wondered if we should get together …’

      To a lawyer at the Fed.

      ‘Angelina, this is Mitch Mitchell. Assigned to Senate Banking for a while and thought I should give you a call …’

      A banker in Detroit.

      ‘Jay, this is Mitch Mitchell. Yeah, good to talk with you. How’re you doing … ?’

      To a journalist on Wall Street.

      Look for his own investigation, try to find something that nobody else had, and he’d spend light years on it and get nowhere. Pick up on something somebody else was already working, though, take it beyond where their expertise or resources could go but offer to cut them in on the final play, and he might make it.

      ‘Andie.’ Drug Enforcement Administration in Tampa, Florida. ‘Mitch Mitchell, long time no see. How’d you mean, you knew I was going to call. Why, what you got going?’

      It would have to be good, though, have to be right. And he wouldn’t mention Donaghue unless someone asked, because Donaghue was money in the bank and only to be used when necessary.

      By lunchtime he had spoken to ten contacts, by mid-afternoon another three, two more phoning him back. Tomorrow it would be the same, the day after the same again. And after he’d talked to them he’d hit the road, get hunched up over a beer with those who might have a runner. Sometimes it would be coffee, sometimes dinner, sometimes twenty minutes behind closed doors. And not all the contacts male, some of the best would be female.

      ‘Jim Anderton, please.’ Anderton was an Assistant District Attorney in Manhattan, smart waistcoats and friendly manner. When it suited. Political ambitions and on the make.

      ‘I’m sorry, Mr Anderton’s in court. Can he call you back?’

      Mitchell gave the receptionist his name and new office number. Anderton would call back even if he didn’t have anything, because assistant DAs with political ambitions always did.

      Tampa and Detroit seemed front runners at the moment, he decided, plenty of other options already emerging, though. He switched on the computer, built in a personal security code, and opened the first file of the investigation.

      The armoured Chevrolet collected Brettlaw at seven. The family were seated round the breakfast table. Great house, great wife, great kids – he always appreciated being told. Great barbecues in the summer, great hiking trips in the fall, great skiing in the winter. When he’d had the time.

      Fifteen minutes later the driver swung through the gates at Langley and turned under the main building. Brettlaw collected his СКАЧАТЬ