A Season in Hell. Jack Higgins
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for Concorde, the fastest passenger flight in the world. It would have had her in London in three hours, fifteen minutes, but that would have meant waiting until the following morning. By chance, Pan Am had a delayed flight leaving for London just after midnight, a Boeing 747, so she took that.
The truth was she needed time to think. She’d left a still protesting Dan Morgan behind at Kennedy. He’d wanted to come with her, but she wouldn’t have that. There were things he could do, of course. Alert their London associates. A car, a driver, the house in Lord North Street they all used when visiting London. A good address, Edward had once told her. Very convenient for Parliament and Number Ten Downing Street.
Edward, she thought. First Edward in that stupid little war. Such a waste of a fine man. Now this. She stared down through the window at the lights of New York below as the plane turned out to sea, and the pain was unbearable. She closed her eyes and felt a hand on her shoulder.
The blonde stewardess who had greeted her on boarding smiled down. ‘May I get you a drink now, Mrs Talbot?’
Sarah stared blankly up at her, unable to speak for a moment, and her own intelligence told her that this was shock and that she had to fight it or go under. She forced a smile. ‘Brandy and soda please.’ Strange, but for the first time since boarding, probably because of the subdued lighting, she noticed that all the seats around her were empty. In fact, she seemed to be the only person in the whole of the first-class cabin.
‘Am I it for tonight?’ she asked as the stewardess brought her brandy.
‘Almost,’ the girl said cheerfully. ‘Just one more on the other side.’
Sarah glanced across and saw at first only the back of another stewardess in the far aisle and then she moved to the galley and Sarah saw the other passenger. It was Rafael Barbera. She felt bewildered, shocked. For a moment, she closed her eyes and was in the back of the car again reading Charles’s newspaper and looking at Barbera’s photo. She’d been so happy, everything going so well, and now this terrible nightmare. She sipped some of the brandy and took a deep breath. It was just like that dreadful cable from the Ministry of Defence in London telling her of Edward’s death. You fought or you went under.
The stewardess appeared again. ‘Would you like the menu now, Mrs Talbot?’
At first, Sarah was going to say no, but then remembered that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that wouldn’t do at all. There’d been no time for lunch with the big deal breaking so she had a little smoked salmon, a salad, some cold lobster, eating with no kind of conscious pleasure, but because strength was important now. She was aware of Barbera also eating on the other side of the cabin, saw him speak to his stewardess who turned and came across. She leaned over Sarah.
‘We have a movie for you as usual, Mrs Talbot, but as there are only two of you tonight, we won’t show it unless you want us to. Mr Barbera over there isn’t bothered one way or the other.’
‘Neither am I,’ Sarah told her. ‘So let’s skip it.’
The stewardess returned and spoke to Barbera who nodded and raised his champagne glass in salute and smiled. He spoke to the stewardess again and she returned. ‘Mr Barbera was wondering if you might join him in a glass of champagne.’
‘Oh, I don’t really think so,’ began Sarah, already too late, for he was on his feet, moving with surprising speed for a man of his size.
He leaned on the cane and looked down at her. ‘Mrs Talbot, you don’t know me, but you come highly recommended. I believe you are an associate of Dan Morgan? He handles the occasional business matter for me from time to time.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
He reached for her hand, kissed it gracefully and there was a slight quirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth. ‘You wouldn’t. It’s a special account.’ He eased into the chair beside her. ‘Now then, champagne. You need it. I’ve been watching you. At the very least it’s been a bad day.’
‘Oh, no,’ she protested. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Nonsense.’ He took the two glasses from the stewardess and passed them to her. ‘A strange thing for a Sicilian to say, but when you are tired of champagne you are tired of life.’ He raised his glass. ‘As my Jewish friends would say, lechayim.’
‘Lechayim?’ she said.
‘To life, Mrs Talbot!’
‘I’ll drink to that, Mr Barbera.’ She emptied the glass in one long swallow. ‘It’s really very appropriate. I’m drinking to life and my son’s dead. Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard of?’
And then she dropped her glass and turned into the window and cried as she had not cried since she was a little girl and he stroked her hair gently, motioning the worried stewardess away. Finally, she was still, but she stayed curled up staring into the shadows, letting him soothe her, a child again with Daddy when it had been good. When it had worked. Finally, she pushed herself away, got up without a word and went to the toilet. She washed her face with cold water and combed her hair. When she came out, the stewardess was there.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Talbot?’
‘It’s quite simple. I just got news of my son’s death. That’s why I’m on my way to London. But I’ll be fine. I won’t break down on you, I promise.’
The young woman instinctively flung her arms around her. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Sarah kissed her on the cheek. ‘That’s very kind. I see Mr Barbera’s ordered coffee, but actually I’m a tea person.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
She took her seat again beside Barbera. ‘All right now?’ he asked.
‘I will be.’
‘When we’ve talked,’ he said calmly and raised a hand as if to forestall protest. ‘This is necessary, believe me.’
‘All right.’ She opened her bag, took the battered old silver cigarette case they’d found on Edward’s body at Mount Tumbledown and extracted a cigarette. She lit it, blew smoke up at the ceiling in a strangely defiant gesture. ‘You don’t mind?’
He smiled. ‘At my age, Mrs Talbot, you can’t afford to mind anything.’
‘How much do you know about me, Mr Barbera?’
‘They tell me you’re one of the best brains in Wall Street. And when you were very, very young, you were almost a Congresswoman.’
‘I was a rich little spoiled bitch. My father seemed to have all the money in the world. Because I didn’t have a mother he indulged me. Oh, I went to Radcliffe, graduated magna cum laude. No trouble. I was very bright, you see. I didn’t need to work. I smoked marijuana like everyone else did in the sixties and I screwed around like everyone else did.’ She turned sideways to look at him. ‘Does that shock you?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘I had a boyfriend who dropped out of college and was drafted to Vietnam. They gave him a gun and sent him off to play. He only lasted three months. Pure mindless destruction.’ She shook her head. ‘I was very smart. I didn’t join the protest movement until after I got my party’s nomination to Congress.’
‘And your father didn’t like that.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Didn’t speak to me for three years. Considered me some sort of traitor. The voters didn’t think much of me either. I finally pulled out and decided to get my MBA and then go to work.’ She laughed. ‘Wall Street beckoned.’
‘Where you could show your father what you were made of?’
‘In spades. And I did too.’ There was the defiance there again. ‘Mind you, I did please him in one way. In my husband.’
‘I didn’t realize until tonight that you’d been