"Jesus," he muttered. "Sarah Brine."
There were three pictures of the movie actress, and in all of them she was nude and erotically posed. Jessup shook his head, and pushed the photos aside. The handwritten letters were bound by a thick rubber band. The paper on which they were written was cracked, and the ink had faded. Jessup went through them, skimming. As he expected, they were love letters from Sarah Brine to David Ogden. More than tender notes, they were explicit, descriptive, and highly complimentary. Jessup bound them up again, and turned to the sheaf of typewritten pages. They comprised a file of correspondence between Ogden and Gregory Lancer, head of Lancer Publications in Los Angeles. The dates on the letters were over ten years old. Again, Jessup skimmed. Ogden saying,… spoken to several of my friends who are interested in investing in Temptation. And,… my check enclosed for my share of the Temptation project. And,… I can't think of anyone who could do a better job in Temptation than Sarah Brine. And,… must thank you for the consideration shown to Miss Brine. It won't be forgotten.
Sarah Brine in Temptation, thought Jessup. Her first big break, the movie that made her a star, and David did it.
He turned to the next envelope marked Jenny. Again there were photographs of a nude and beautiful woman, but this time there was no instant recognition, and it took Jessup a moment to realize that the woman was Jenny Cookson, television anchorwoman and companion of the celebrated. As noted for her good looks as for her bulldog approach to journalism, Jenny Cookson had, over the past five years, made herself into the ultimate television interviewer, and in many ways had become almost as famous as the people who appeared on her program. Ogden, apparently, had been interviewed off camera. Again there was a packet of affectionate letters, and again a record of the payoff, copies of memorandum from Ogden arranging for Ms. Cookson to interview the Secretary of State, the First Lady, and a string of only slightly lesser notables.
Quid pro quo, thought Jessup. The queasy feeling was back in his stomach.
The third envelope was marked Carla, and Jessup was not surprised to find inside it a nude photograph of the wife of John MacAlester, the senior senator from Florida, for the long-standing relationship between David Ogden and Carla MacAlester had been grist for the Washington gossip mills for years. He examined the photo critically, and decided that it must have been taken years before when Carla had still been the vibrant young beauty from Tallahassee. There was the usual packet of letters, and along with them the record of the business side of the relationship: a series of notes to heavyweight senators of both parties designed to secure a seat on the powerful Foreign Relations Committee for the ambitious Senator MacAlester.
So neat and orderly for a record of sexual conquests, thought Jessup. First a photo of the woman like a trophy to be mounted, then the proof of her affection, and finally the record of the value received. For one, a starring role, for another an entrance into high places, for another a boost to her husband's career. What next?
Next was the socially impeccable Vivian Livingstone of Chevy Chase and Newport. No photographs of Mrs. Livingstone, too aware of her place in society, or perhaps too timid, but there was the packet of creased and dog-eared envelopes, still with a touch of scent to the paper, and at the bottom of the pile a copy of the notification that Mrs. Livingstone's son, Bradford, had been appointed to the United States Military Academy at West Point.
Jessup opened the last envelope and drew out a photograph of Maria-Teresa Bonfiglia, a star of the Metropolitan Opera; but this was no nude. The eight-by-ten glossy showed the veteran soprano in the costume of Puccini's Madame Butterfly, a role for which she had been critically acclaimed ever since her debut twenty years ago. There was no packet of letters this time, no scent of sachet, but the business end of the arrangement was there in the form of letters between Ogden and Otto Hartz, producer and impresario. Madame Bonfiglia was fast approaching the end of a distinguished career, and it was Mr. Ogden's warmest desire that she leave the musical stage in triumph. Therefore, he told Mr. Hartz, he was willing to underwrite personally the costs of a farewell tour by this magnificent soprano, if only Hartz would handle the details of production. Hartz would, indeed, and the last sheet of paper in the envelope gave the tour's itinerary: Denver, San Francisco, Dallas, Chicago, Cleveland, Washington, and the final performance at New York 's Carnegie Hall on the sixth of March.
An expensive tab to pick up, thought Jessup, for something that must have happened so many years ago. But then, David Ogden always paid his bills, no matter when they were presented.
The queasy feeling was back again. Jessup was in no way a prude, and Ogden 's reputation as a sexual adventurer had been so well known that these confirmations of his adventures came as no surprise. What was surprising was the now apparent fact that over all those years Ogden had been trading favors for favors, using his influence as a way of wangling women into his bed.
And I thought he was doing it on charm. Well, I guess it wasn't pimping, but it was the next thing to it.
He stacked the envelopes, returned them to the right-hand section of the box, and sat staring at them. There would be nothing to send on to Amelia; this would all have to be destroyed. He shook his head sadly. Bedroom standards, he told himself. Don't ever measure people by bedroom standards. It was something that Ogden had taught him years ago.
He closed the compartment, and opened the other one. It contained only four thin Agency case folders. Jessup stiffened when he saw them. The covers of the folders were blank. No case numbers, no circulation slips, no registry stamps. There was only one proper place for a blank case folder, and that was in the Registry Office. Gingerly, reluctantly, he took out the topmost folder, and opened it. It contained a single sheet covered with a spidery handwriting that he recognized as Ogden 's own. He opened the other three folders. Each contained a single, similar sheet of paper.
Jessup sat back to read. He read through the four folders carefully, then read through them again. When he was finished with them for the second time, he sat for a long while with his eyes on the place in the broken wall where the lockbox had been. He did not know it, but his face was grey and his eyes were heavy-lidded. He reached for the telephone.
2
I was drinking beer and eating Cajun shrimp with Manny Escobar and Bobby Montero when I heard about David Ogden. The shrimp joint was a shack off Route 90 outside of Houma, but there was a television set mounted on the wall and the word was on the eleven o'clock news. David Ogden, World War II hero, and number three man in the CIA, was dead. The news didn't move me much. The Agency owns me and my friends lock, stock, and barrel, but they don't own us body and soul. The relationship is love-hate, easy on the love. We do what they tell us to do, within reason, but that doesn't mean that we sleep in the same bed. Manny knew that, but he had to give me the needle.
"Bad news, Ben," he said. "Please accept my sincere condolences on the loss of your leader. I feel for you."
Bobby didn't know me that well, but he saw the way Manny was going, and he got into it. He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Mister Slade, maybe you should go back to the motel and change into something black."
"Black, tu culo," I told him.
"Oh, no, Mister Slade, not mine. Mine is pink; como una rosa en el mes de mayo. You gonna go to the funeral?"
"Not me. I might be tempted to piss on his grave."
Manny shook his head. "Bad luck to talk like that."
"Maybe you should just send flowers," said Bobby. He was big, and flabby, and his lips were greasy from the shrimp. "I heard about that guy, I heard he went crazy. I heard he had the brain cancer."