Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘You mean MPs, do you!’ Trudi said acidly. ‘I bet some of the women get good ones too.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry, they do. You’re right. They’re 99 per cent hoaxes of course, but there’s some provocateurs out there you wouldn’t believe.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Trudi said. Gary Wilcox was listening now but January didn’t appear to care. He flicked at the edge of his empty glass.

‘People get set up. Some of the journos’ll do it in small ways-spike drinks. Sometimes it gets rougher. There was a freelancer who rammed a Member’s car to get a drunk driving story on him.’

‘I heard about that,’ Gary said.

‘You heard about what happened to the reporter,’ January said.

Trudi didn’t wear makeup except a bit around the eyes and her short hair didn’t need any attention. She had on light, loose clothes and had kicked her shoes off. She looked the freshest of us all. ‘What did happen?’ she said.

‘Don’t ask. This could be the same. I wouldn’t put it past that shit Sammy Weiss to pull some stunts like this. How’d he get to the press conference the other day?’

‘Through me. He was useful. I think you’re on the wrong track, Peter. I suggest you give up women for a while.’

‘You believe this wronged husband shit?’

I shrugged. ‘For the shooting, maybe. I don’t know about the bomb.’

‘Well, anyway, I’ll be able to drop the playboy stuff soon. Karen and I’ll work something out.’

‘And you’ll be faithful and true while you’re over here?’ Trudi waved at the window. I supposed we were somewhere over the mid-West.

January grinned. ‘Not as easy as that. You’ve heard of Don Carver, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, shit!’ Gary said.

The name meant something to me but I wasn’t sure what. ‘Who’s he, the Ambassador or someone?’

January laughed hard. ‘No, we’ll be dealing with our peace ambassador, that’s Creighton Kirby and he hates my guts too.’

‘Too?’ I said.

‘I had a thing with his wife once. But I had a bigger thing with Carver’s wife. He’s the Washington correspondent for the Incorporated Press papers at home. He knows me; if I step out of character he’ll smell a rat and he’ll know where to look.’

‘ I hope Mrs Weiner knows how to send a discreet telegram then,’ I said.

January groaned. ‘Christ, so do I.’

January’s performance in Los Angeles had gone over big in a news-starved lull. The result was that it was bedlam at Kennedy Airport and more bedlam at La Guardia where we went to catch the shuttle to Washington. January loved it and kept it up. When a crew-cut reporter wearing a mustard-coloured suit with a dark shirt and tie shoved a microphone at him and screamed: ‘Are you a Red agent!’ January grinned and undid his belt.

‘Christ!’ Trudi said. ‘What’s he going to do?’

Martin covered his eyes and Gary Wilcox shrank back towards the potted palms. I was doing my steely-eyed, crowd-surveying number, but I saw January pull up the waistband of his jockey shorts.

‘I’m wearing red underpants,’ he said. He let the elastic snap back and re-fastened his belt. ‘And a blue tie and a white shirt. I’m wearing red, white and blue.’

A small cheer went up from the media mob which January silenced with an upraised palm. ‘Tell me, Mr…?’ He transfixed the crew-cut reporter with his hard blue eyes.

‘F…Fisher.’

‘Mr Fisher. Which way did you vote in the last Congressional election-Democrat or Republican?’

Fisher was no slouch; he recovered fast. The flush which had been spreading over his skull, visible under the thin crew-cut hair, died down. ‘You can’t ask that question of an American citizen. I want to know…’

‘You misunderstand,’ January said silkily. ‘I want to know if you voted either way.’

‘Well, no, I…’

‘You didn’t vote at all?’ January drew himself up and looked more than five foot eight or nine. ‘You’re not a serious political person and yours is not a serious political question.’ He flashed a smile. ‘And from your clothes my guess is you’re colour blind anyway. Next.’

The reporters lapped it up but January knew when to stop. One of the print men pushed forward and held out his hand. ‘G’die, mite,’ he said. ‘Gotta prahn fer th’ barby?’

January ignored the hand and turned to me. ‘What did he say?’ He spoke clearly enough for the mike to pick up his voice.

‘Search me,’ I said. ‘I think he’s French.’

January pumped the reporter’s hand hard. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak much French. If you’d like to put the question in writing I’ll be happy to answer.’

‘Mr January-Cassie Burnett, NBC News.’ January gave her the nod. She was a tall redhead in a fur coat and boots. There was no window to look out but, judging from the clothes the reporters wore, it was cold outside. January had changed into a dark suit.

‘Ms Burnett.’

‘How would you describe your policy for the Pacific region-in a few words?’

January grinned at her but kept his voice serious. ‘My job to is give my views and those of a lot of people who think as I do to your Senate committee. I’ll try to make it clear what those views are but it’s not my job to sum them up in a few words. I’m afraid, Ms Burnett, that that’s your job. Let me know when you’ve got them.’

I could feel Trudi squirming beside me; the charm was a touch too thick but it worked for Cassie. ‘I will, sir,’ she said huskily.

I buckled my seat belt and looked at January. ‘Can you keep this pace up?’

‘I don’t know. What do you think, Martin?’ Martin shrugged. ‘You seem to be making the rules, Minister.’

Creighton Kirby met us at National Airport although he seemed rather resentful about having to do it. He was a tall, sandy-haired and freckled man with a Melbourne Club air about him. He wore a light poplin top coat so it was evidently warmer in Washington than New York. But that was all right because January had changed again-into a mid-weight suit and he carried a coat very similar to Kirby’s over his arm. Those of us who’d travelled 22 hours in the same clothes weren’t in the sartorial hunt.

‘Creighton,’ January said, while the minions bustled about with the bags, ‘why are you looking so cross?’

‘I’ll be frank.’ Kirby spoke with a crisp, Establishment accent that would get on my nerves inside half an hour. ‘You’ve created a stir at a time when I had some very delicate negotiations underway. I…’

January made as if to turn on his heel. ‘Well, if you’re on the brink of achieving total disarmament, I’ll just piss off.’

Kirby’s thin mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Please, just consult me before you make public statements that could be twisted.’

Trudi, Gary and the advisers had got into a huddle with some people who had arrived with Kirby. That left me with the Ambassador and the Minister, crumpled suit and all. Kirby was evidently used to bodyguards being within earshot because he ignored me completely.

‘If there was disarmament, Creighton, you’d be out of a job, wouldn’t you?’

Kirby’s long, bony features twitched as if to say there was no danger of that. The dislike flowing between the two men generated a tension that almost had a smell to it. I had to stop staring at them and do my job. I shielded my eyes from the glare coming through the big windows and looked around the polished floors and the steel and glass pillars and gleaming plastic surfaces for wrong movements, Wrong faces and anything that shouldn’t be there.

It was early afternoon and the place was busy. There were more security men around than you’d see in Australia but not as many as I’d been led to suspect. That’s unless the cleaners were carrying. 45s and the clerks had grenade launchers under the desks. Kirby acknowledged a signal from one of his team and spoke to a point a few inches above January’s head. ‘We’ve got a couple of cars for you. I have another appointment so I’ll…’ The sentence ended in a mumble but January had already turned away.