Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens
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was bent slightly, as if she was listening to someone on her right who was obscured by the mourners in the front row, but her eyes were fixed rigid and staring straight ahead.
They left the room and returned to Pearson’s.
‘Interesting photos,’ Haslam suggested. ‘Almost the story of Donaghue’s life, except that I don’t understand some of them.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Vietnam, for example. I thought he opposed the war.’
Pearson nodded. ‘There’s something you should understand about Jack Donaghue.’ He settled at his desk, swung his feet up and held the coffee mug in his lap, Haslam opposite him. ‘Some would say Donaghue is an enigma: of the Establishment but against it. The fact that he’s against it makes him a good Senator, the fact that he’s from it makes him an effective one.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Jack Donaghue’s background is Boston Irish.’ It was in line with the PR tour – nothing said that wasn’t on a cv or in a file somewhere, nothing controversial or private. ‘Privileged upbringing, Harvard of course, which was where his politics began.’
‘How?’ Haslam asked.
‘It was at Harvard that Donaghue first declared his opposition to the Vietnam War.’
‘So why the photo of him in uniform? Why the awards for bravery?’
‘As some would say, Jack’s an enigma.’ Pearson switched easily between first and second names. ‘He opposed the war yet at the same time felt a duty to his country. Others dodged the draft or used their connections to get safe postings, but when Jack’s number came up he did neither. Ended up commanding a Swift boat, doing runs up the deltas. He was awarded a couple of Bronze Stars, plus a Silver Star. Apparently he might have been up for a Navy Medal, even a Medal of Honor, but hinted that he would turn it down. Said he was being considered because of his connections, and that everyone on his boat deserved an award and not just him.’
‘What was that for?’
Pearson looked down at the coffee mug. ‘He doesn’t talk about it much. Seems some recon guys were holed up on a river bank, heavy casualties and surrounded by NVA. The choppers couldn’t reach them and they were finished. Donaghue got them out, though he himself was wounded.’
Except if Donaghue got a Silver Star and was up for a Navy Medal or a Medal of Honor, there was more to it than that, Haslam thought. ‘After Vietnam?’ he asked.
‘Law school. Legal practice, then assistant District Attorney. All this time arguing that we should pull out of Vietnam, but at the same time fighting for veterans’ rights.’
‘Then?’
‘Two terms in the House of Representatives.’ Which was when Pearson had met him, when Pearson had become his alter ego. ‘Now in his second term in the Senate. Outstanding record since his first day in DC.’ Pearson smiled. ‘Which I’m bound to say, of course. Supports industrial development but not at the expense of the environment. Believes in budget control but not at the expense of things like health care. Sees the need for a strong national economy but not at the expense of the Third World.’
Haslam remembered the photograph on the desk. ‘Family?’
‘Jack met Cath at Harvard. She’s a lawyer, specializes in human rights. They have two girls, both at Sidwell Friends.’
So now you know Jack Donaghue – it was in the way Pearson stopped talking, the way he put the coffee mug on the desk.
‘And from here?’
Pearson laughed and stood up, looked out the window. The door from reception opened and Donaghue came in, followed by an aide. He was taller than Haslam had expected, leaner face and steel-grey hair.
‘Senator, may I introduce Dave Haslam from England. Dave’s a friend of Quince Jordan and Mitch Mitchell.’
‘Good to meet you.’ The handshake was firm. Behind Donaghue the secretary and aide were reminding both him and Pearson that they were due somewhere else ten minutes ago.
Sorry – Donaghue’s shrug said it – have to go. He held out his hand again. ‘As I said, good to meet you.’ The eyes were unwavering. If Donaghue runs for the Democrat nomination he’ll get it, Jordan had said over lunch. And if Donaghue gets the nomination, he’s the next president. Donaghue turned and left the room, the aide trying to keep up.
Pearson held out his hand. ‘Stay in touch.’
By the time Haslam reached the corridor it was already empty. He walked to the ground floor, found a set of pay phones, called the apartment and activated the answer phone. There were three messages on it, two asking him to call about security consultations and the third from Mitchell inviting him to beer and barbecue at the Gangplank.
Donaghue’s last formal meeting on the Hill that evening ended at six. At six-fifteen, and accompanied by an aide, he attended a cocktail party thrown by one of the lobby groups, at seven a second. It was the standard ending to a standard day. At seven-thirty he drove to the University Club on 16th, between L and M. The building was six-storey red brick, with a small drive-in in front. In the daytime the street would have been lined with cars bearing diplomatic plates from the Russian Federation building next door, the parking tickets plastered over their windscreens always ignored. In early evening, however, the only vehicle was a patrol car of the uniformed division of the Secret Service, the White House emblem on the side and the driver slouched in his seat and reading a Tony Hillerman.
Donaghue parked the Lincoln in one of the bays and went inside.
The atmosphere was refined yet relaxed – the University Club had long enjoyed a more liberal reputation than others in town. The main dining-room was on the left, and the library and reading-room on the right, behind the reception desk. On the first floor was another set of rooms, one of which he had hired for his fortieth birthday party, plus a more informal restaurant, and the bedrooms were on the floors above.
He smiled at the receptionist, spent three minutes talking to a group of other members, then went to the fitness rooms in the basement. Even here the upholstery was leather. He collected a towel, stripped, hung his clothes in a locker, took a plunge in the pool, and went into the sauna.
Tom Brettlaw arrived two minutes later.
Brettlaw’s day had begun at seven. At seven-thirty the inconspicuous Chevrolet had collected him from the family home in South Arlington and driven him the fifteen minutes to Langley. The only clue to its passenger was the greenish tinge of the armoured windows and the slight roll of the chassis. The guard on the main gate was expecting him. The driver turned the car past the front of the greyish-white concrete building, down a drive beneath it, and into the inner carpark. Brettlaw collected his briefcase and took the executive lift to his office on the top floor.
The head of the CIA – the Director of Central Intelligence – is a presidential appointment, as is his deputy, normally a serving military officer. Beneath the deputy are five Deputy Directors, all career intelligence officers. Of these the most powerful is the DDO, the Deputy Director of Operations, the man in effective control of all CIA overt and covert operations throughout the world. For the past four years Tom Brettlaw had been DDO.
His office was spacious: two windows, both curtained, a large desk of his own choosing with a row of telephones to his left and a bank of television screens in front. The leather executive chair behind the desk was flanked by the Stars and Stripes and the Agency flag, and the walls were hung with photographs of Brettlaw meeting prominent politicians, most of them heads of state. The mantelpiece of the marble fireplace was filled with the mementos given by the heads of those foreign intelligence services with whom he had liaised over the years, and the floor was covered by a large and expensive Persian rug. To the left of the main room was a private bathroom. In the area of the room to the right of his desk was a conference table, chairs placed neatly round it, and in the bookcase along on the wall to the left of the door was concealed a minibar. During