Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“Mr. Selby, we aren’t adversaries.” She chose her words carefully. “Please believe me. But I can only tell you what I’m allowed to by security restrictions. The senator has considerably more leeway. Your father trusted Senator Lester. Jonas Selby realized, eventually, that he’d been the victim of a rigged court-martial, and the reason was that he was a cog in something too complex for him to understand. He got in touch with Senator Lester by pure coincidence, if you believe in such things. Living alone in Truckee, he happened to watch a network television show that exposed certain U.S. Army experiments with LSD on unwilling, unknowing military subjects. A black sergeant, it was demonstrated, had had his head turned into a psychedelic merry-go-round by chemicals added to his food. Your father realized then that his brain had been scrambled in some similar way in Korea, and in Colorado, accounting for his lapses of memory, his failure to defend himself, even to understand the charges. He wrote to the network. His letter was forwarded to the late Senator Mark Rowan’s committee, where it was tucked away in an inoperative file. Senator Lester didn’t see that letter, and the two that followed, until after Rowan’s death when Lester succeeded him. A secretary found the file when they were changing offices. Lester immediately phoned your father, who told him he could cite names, dates and specific instances of illegal use of drugs on captured South Korean soldiers.

“They arranged a meeting to put those charges on tape. One week before that meeting, your father was shot to death in his cabin by so-called prowlers.”

At which point in her chilling narrative Senator Lester arrived, accompanied by a bellhop toting his luggage. Tired and travel-worn, the senator looked smaller than he did on television; the camera emphasized his high coloring, his square jaws and the military brace of his shoulders. Now he seemed slight if trim alongside Selby. Strands of gray-black hair fell across his forehead. His deeply set eyes were shadowed with fatigue.

He asked Miss Kim for a Scotch and tossed his topcoat over a chair. Excusing himself, and carrying his drink, he went into the bedroom with his aide and closed the door.

When the senator returned moments later he had freshened himself, brushed his hair and changed into slippers and a loose cardigan sweater. “Fourteen hours from Brussels to London to Philadelphia. I’m beat, Mr. Selby. Jet lag is winding up with the common cold on the list of things we can’t do much about. Thanks for coming over here to talk to us. I know you’ve got demands on your own time.”

His eyes turned to the stack of diaries on the coffee table. “Your father never mentioned these to me. We’ll have a close look at them, you can be sure. In a case like this any lead can pay off. It’s pretty difficult to say in advance what a so-called reliable source will turn out to be.”

An urgency in Lester’s manner communicated itself to Selby; it sounded in his husky voice and animated his distracted gestures. He held up his glass. “A tad more water, Vickie. I didn’t eat since Brussels, a straight whiskey would put me away

An investigation like mine, Selby, attracts tipsters, informers, vindictive gossip, people with grudges, ex-wives, power-brokers in Intelligence... Who was Deep Throat, for instance? What’s a highly placed official? Who are those people the press and TV quote like Holy Writ? Cleaning women selling shredded papers to Jack Anderson? A maintenance man eavesdropping in an elevator? But your father was an authentic source, Selby. He was a living example of what they’d done.”

The senator settled back and put his slippered feet on a stool. He rubbed his forehead. “Vickie, would you order me something light. A steak sandwich and a salad would be nice... Mr. Selby, we’ve run a quick check on you. Miss Kim tells me you never had any direct contact with your father. Unless there’s something in his diaries Vickie missed, this could be another dead end, one more lead that didn’t pay off. Still, I’m grateful for your cooperation... Now tell me this. When you were in Summitt City last October you met a friend of your brother’s, a girl named Jennifer, a model or photographer, something like that. Have you had any further contact with her? Vickie tells me there was one ambiguous phone call from Jarrell. Could have been anyone, for that matter. But I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything from that girl?”

“You also must be wondering,” Selby said, “about what I’m wondering about.”

“How we knew about this Jennifer in the first place? That what you’re thinking? As I told you, Selby, a case like this has an effect on information like a magnet on metal filings. Things can come flying in from everywhere. But you’re entitled to more than that kind of bullshit, pardon my pidgin French, Vickie. We’ve got an agent undercover in Summitt City, have had since we started looking into Harlequin. A routine procedure. Never mind whether it’s a he or a she — it’s our source for your brother’s friend. But we don’t have much. So I’m curious about her, thought you might know something.”

“Sorry I can’t be helpful—”

“You don’t know anything more about her?”

“No.”

“Did she mention how she met your brother?”

“Said something about a disco party, they met, started talking.”

“Your brother tell you anything else about her? How she happened to be there that particular weekend, for instance?”

Selby said no. He’d been trained, it occurred to him, to stand for the national anthem, to regard pretty cheerleaders waving pom-poms on sunny fall afternoons as the quintessence of healthy and innocent American values, and, it followed, to trust members of the United States Senate. But it struck him that Senator Lester was not being altogether truthful with him. Why all this curiosity about Jennifer? Why so little, really, about Jarrell, or Harlequin, which they were supposed to be investigating? He had been told — by the senator and Miss Kim — a judiciously edited story... They also hadn’t revealed what Jerry Goldbirn had found out in an unofficial inquiry, that Jennifer’s last name was Easton, that she lived at an expensive address in New York on Sutton Place South and had an unlisted phone protected by a high priority seal. Such basic information had to be available to anyone with Senator Lester’s contacts. If they were keeping their own counsel on those matters, Selby would keep his.

“If your check on me was as thorough as I imagine it was,” Selby said, “you’ll understand I’ve got to be back in East Chester this afternoon.” He stood and picked up his coat. “So you’ll both have to excuse me now. Thanks for the coffee, Miss Kim.”

An expectant silence settled as Brett walked to the stand to begin her cross-examination of Dr. Leslie Clemens. The sharpened interest was understandable because it was obvious the People’s attorney was angry; a combative energy was evident in her posture, and her eyes narrowed as she studied the witness.

“Dr. Clemens, how much are you being paid for testifying in this case?”

“I can’t tell you exactly, the case isn’t over yet.”

“Then you are paid on an hourly basis?”

“Yes.”

“Plus expenses?”

“Yes.”

“How much are you paid by the hour, Dr. Clemens?”

“My fee is one hundred dollars per hour.”

“Is that for an eight-hour day?”

“That depends on circumstances. They vary from case to case. On occasion, my working day begins at breakfast, reading transcripts and so forth. Sometimes it doesn’t end until I retire—”

“What is your schedule in this particular case?”