Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“We’re not Americans,” Whitlock replied diplomatically.

“Neither are most Democrats, judging by their tepid foreign policies.” Tillman laughed then clapped his hands together. “Please, why don’t you come through to the lounge?”

They followed Tillman to a room at the end of the hallway. The doors were open. A tall, elegant woman was standing at the bay window. She looked around when Tillman ushered them into the room. Melissa Scoby, now in her late thirties, had lost none of the beauty and poise which had once made her one of the most coveted models in both Europe and America. She had married Scoby when she was twenty; a year later their son, Lloyd, had been born. He was now in his first year of reading law at Harvard University.

“Mr. Paluzzi will be traveling with us to London tomorrow,” Tillman said once the introductions were over.

“Then I’m sure we’ll be in very capable hands,” she said with a faint smile, looping her hand through Paluzzi’s arm and leading him to the sofa. “How long have you been in America, Mr. Paluzzi?”

“A couple of months,” Paluzzi replied.

She sat down. “And which part of Italy are you from?”

“Pescara. It’s a holiday resort on the east coast.”

“I’ve heard of it,” she replied. “I lived in Milan for six months when I was modeling over there. Are you married?”

“Yes,” he replied. “We have a six-month-old son, Dario.”

She nodded then looked up at Tillman. “Ray, a drink for our guests.”

“Of course. Gentlemen?”

“Just a soft drink for me,” Whitlock replied. “I’m driving.”

“Mr. Paluzzi?” Tillman asked.

“A beer would be fine,” Paluzzi answered.

Tillman went to the sideboard and opened one of the doors. Inside was a mini-bar. He took a Budweiser and a Pepsi from the fridge then closed the door again. He had just handed the drinks to Whitlock and Paluzzi when the door opened and Jack Scoby entered.

“I’ll have a Jack Daniels, Ray,” Scoby announced, removing his jacket and draping it over the back of the nearest chair. “Make it a double. God, what a day.” He kissed his wife lightly on the cheek then turned to Whitlock and extended a hand in greeting. “Good to see you again.”

Whitlock shook Scoby’s hand then introduced him to Paluzzi.

“He’s going to be your bodyguard in London, darling,” Melissa Scoby said, glancing at Paluzzi out of the corner of her eye.

There was a knock at the door and the butler entered the room. “There’s a phone call for you, Mrs. Scoby.”

“Who is it, Morgan?” she asked, mildly irritated.

“It’s Master Lloyd. Would you like me to put the call through to you here, madam?”

“No, I’ll take it in the hall.” Melissa Scoby stood up, smoothed down her skirt, then followed the butler from the room.

Tillman handed Scoby his drink. “We need to talk.”

“Sure,” Scoby replied absently.

“Now, Jack. It’s important.” Tillman looked down at Whitlock. “Would you excuse us? It shouldn’t take long.”

“Please, go ahead,” Whitlock said.

Scoby and Tillman left the room.

“I feel uncomfortable with her,” Paluzzi said, looking across at the closed doors.

“She’s known to be a bit of a flirt,” Whitlock said. “Don’t worry though, she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her chance of becoming the First Lady one day. She’s far too shrewd for that.” He took a sip of the Pepsi then placed the glass on the table beside him. “What I’m going to tell you is strictly off the record.”

“Of course,” Paluzzi replied, sitting forward.

“You may have noticed earlier that Tillman didn’t offer her a drink. She doesn’t touch alcohol. Not anymore.”

“Are you saying she was once an alcoholic?” Paluzzi said in amazement.

“Not in so many words. She did drink heavily for several years, but always in the privacy of her own home. That’s why it never reached the Press. Her friends always rallied around her, protected her, and they eventually persuaded her to go to one of those clinics to dry out. She’s now completely reformed.”

“Why did she drink?”

“Boredom and loneliness. Well, that’s how her friends saw it. Publicly, Jack and Melissa are the perfect couple. But it’s only a pretense. The marriage is far from stable. Scoby’s a workaholic. He’s always put in a fourteen-, fifteen-hour day, ever since he graduated from Harvard. Which doesn’t exactly leave much time for his wife. But she’ll never leave him. She’s far too smart for that. She’ll stick by him because she’s just as obsessed as he is about reaching the White House one day.”

“And their son?”

“Like father, like son. And he doesn’t get on too well with his mother by all accounts.”

“Why wasn’t any of this included in our assignment dossiers?” Paluzzi asked.

“Because it’s irrelevant to the case. UNACO has a mole on Capitol Hill who knows everything there is to know about the different politicians up there. But it took some serious digging on his part to uncover any of this. Scoby has some very powerful connections on Capitol Hill who’ll close ranks around him the moment there’s a whiff of scandal about him, or any of his family. They’re obviously protecting him for when he’s ready to run for President.”

Paluzzi sat back in his chair and took a sip of beer. “What if she tries to flirt with Mike? After all, he’s the one with the looks.”

A slow smile spread across Whitlock’s face. “Now that would be worth paying to see.”

Tillman removed the folder from his attaché case and placed it on the desk in front of Scoby. Scoby looked up at him but said nothing. He still couldn’t believe what Tillman had just told him. They had gone to such extraordinary lengths to ensure that every meeting between Tillman and Miguel Cabrera was held in the utmost secrecy. Nothing had been left to chance. Why had they bothered? Hell, they might as well have met in Navarro’s office for all the good it had done them. But his anger was still directed more at Navarro than it was at the Colombian. It was an anger born out of fear. He had devised the entire operation himself. He had negotiated his own percentage which would have been forwarded to the juntas in South and Central America. He had been in charge from the outset. Now it was Navarro who was calling the shots, and that frightened him. The manipulator had become the manipulated …

“Do you want to listen to any of the tapes?” Tillman asked.

“What the hell for?” Scoby shot back furiously.

“I just thought–” Tillman trailed off with a despondent shrug.

Scoby opened the folder and flicked through the photographs. He shook his head in disbelief then glared at Tillman. “I can’t believe you let this happen under your very nose. Christ, Ray, how many meetings did you have with that bastard? Ten? Twelve? And each time he not only managed to get you on film, he also got everything you said on tape. Didn’t you ever suspect anything?”

“Don’t you think I’d have mentioned it if I had?” Tillman retorted angrily.

Scoby threw the photographs onto the desk then got up and moved to the window. “Well, thanks to your incompetence Navarro’s now running the show. And there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it without incriminating ourselves.”

“We can still make it work, Jack. As Navarro said, the Mafia are going to be taking all the risks once the shipments are cleared through customs.”

“Why don’t I feel reassured?” Scoby closed the folder and looked across at Tillman. “So what happens now?”

“I’m meeting Navarro next Tuesday to give him our answer.”

“You might as well have given it to him this afternoon. It’s not as if we’ve got any say in the matter. We’ve been screwed and that’s all there is to it.” Scoby gestured to the box of tapes. “Burn them.”