The Bureau Chief opened his mouth to defend his friend, the President of the United States of America. However, there were no words.
“As I speak I am aware that there may be American servicemen in the hands of the British authorities. I solemnly vow to the American people that I will not attend a peace summit while our boys are held captive overseas…”
There were gasps of disbelief in the room.
“LeMay’s bombers killed thousands of civilians on Malta and he hasn’t even had the guts to apologise!”
Ben Bradlee hardly dared think what the British were going to make of it. First American aircraft launch unprovoked ‘sneak’ attacks, and then the President of the United States starts making demands as if it was the Brits’ fault!
“I know this will not be an insurmountable problem because in my heart I choose to believe that the vital national interests of both the United States and the old country remain indivisible, one and the same thing and that when good friends differ, the spirit of friendship and reconciliation can conquer all things!”
“Yeah! When I was a kid I used to believe in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy!” One young man added contemptuously.
Chapter 47
On stage at the Troubadour Sam Brenckmann smelled the whiff of petrol before he caught the acrid tang of smoke and burning, only moments before the lights went out and people started to scream. It never occurred to him to try to be brave, or to attempt to ‘take charge’ of the situation. The ‘situation’ was already completely out of control by then. He groped on the floor in the near darkness for his open guitar case, pulled the lid shut, and kicked away the barstool he had been sitting on in the centre of the stage. He planned to head for the side door out into the alley, it was nearest exit and he knew the way well enough to stumble to it in the gloom.
There seemed to be flames behind him and to his left.
The stench of petrol told him somebody had started the fires.
A rush of thoughts threatened to bury him.
Judy, the baby, all the people trampling over each other trying to get out; he was strangely unafraid for himself. He knew where he was going, all he had to do was kick open the door to the alley and he would be fine.
Unfortunately, others had had exactly the same idea as Sam; and they jostled and cursed, shuffled in the deafening black confusion of the burning club.
There was a lot of smoke suddenly.
People were coughing.
And Sam was very, very aware of the rusty tyre iron rattling around in his guitar case. He had tried wrapping the thing in a towel to stop it scratching the back of his Martin, contemplated throwing it away or leaving it in the back of his pickup. Right now he was really glad he had it with him without actually being able to say why.
Nobody could get out through the side door.
It was locked, jammed, blocked and more people were pressing against it all the time as the smoke got thicker. It became impossible to breathe without crouching down beneath the hot, suffocating, poisoned air quickly filling the club from the roof down to the floor.
Okay!
Forget the side door!
Backstage?
Behind the bar?
No time to think about it!
The flames were licking along and across the ceiling, burning faraway crimson through the thickening smoke. His guitar was still slung over his chest; the big unwieldy case rattling with the lumpy tyre iron dragged him down. He could not catch his breath.
It was like a bad dream.
Stumbling forward, bodies crushing against him.
More than once he stepped over what must have been somebody on the floor. He knew if he stopped moving forward he would be knocked down by the press behind him.
There was a roaring of wind.
A searing heat and then Sam was staggering drunkenly into the parking lot behind the Troubadour, coughing and puking in the deliciously clean, pure air of the California night.
He dropped his guitar case and it flew open.
Metal clanged on tarmac as the tyre iron skittered to a stop against his right foot with a soft, hurtful thud.
Without thinking Sam shrugged off his Martin, laying it carefully — or as carefully as a man wracked with lung-clearing coughing fits was capable — in the open case.
He slowly stood up, hefting the tyre iron in his left fist.
Feeling week and nauseas he looked around. There were men and women tottering, sitting on the cold ground. A teenage girl was weeping a few yards to his left; and approaching him like Sherman tanks were two very big men in bikers’ leathers swinging chains.
He knew they were coming to get him because one of them shone a torch in his face.
“Too bad you didn’t burn, boy!”
Right then Sam realised, belatedly, that Doug Weston had been right all along about the virtues of toting a loaded forty-five.
Chapter 48
The United States Deputy Secretary of State was in a hurry. George Ball perfunctorily shook Gretchen Betancourt’s hand and waved her to take a seat. He viewed her thoughtfully but only for a moment.
“You come highly recommended,” he said tersely.
“Thank you,” Gretchen parroted respectfully. She had listened to the President’s State of the Union Address through the open door to the Under Secretary’s office, and somewhat worryingly, afterwards she was none the wiser as to the central thrust of, or any of the principal objectives of United States foreign policy, other than the President seemed to honestly think that bombing one’s allies was not that big a deal. After the President had finished speaking the Under Secretary had received a call and spoken in low tones she could not catch for nearly twenty minutes.
“High recommendation is a double-edged sword, Miss Betancourt,” George Ball replied. “Do you plan to stay in Washington the next few days or are you heading for the country like everybody else?”
“Er. I was planning to stay in DC, sir.”
The windows rattled and distant thunder rumbled across the capital.
“In that case I’m sure we can find something for you to do.”
“I speak French, sir,” Gretchen offered, trying not to seem pushy, “I’m told that the place to be is on the South East Asia desk?”
George Ball arched an eyebrow.
“Somebody told you that did they?”
“Yes, sir.”
Again, the windows rattled and the flash of lightning flickered distantly.
“In the old days everybody wanted to be posted to Paris or London, or Rome,” the man observed dryly.
Gretchen nodded.
“Yes, well,” she commented, “that was then and this is now, sir.”
George Ball smiled.
“Yes indeed,” he ruminated.
That smile was still on his lips when the whole building shuddered and the walls around the man and the woman seemed to implode in a paroxysm of flying glass and plaster, smoke, and flame amidst an ear-bursting crash…
Chapter 49
The policemen were looking worried now. They had refused to remove Judy’s cuffs until she had her first contraction; then, ignoring the terse orders they had received over their in-car radio to ‘bring the bitches’ — Judy and Sabrina — ‘in to West Hollywood’, they had pulled the LAPD cruiser onto the hard shoulder. Judy’s cuffs had been removed; Sabrina was still cussing and screaming abuse at the cops because they had left her in restraints.