‘Hello, Russell.’
‘Hello, Mother. It’s nice to hear your voice.’
‘Yours, too. What are you up to?’
‘I need your help, Mother.’
Silence. An understandable silence.
‘I know I’ve abused your support in the past. And given you nothing but trouble in return. But this time, I don’t want money, and I don’t need legal help. And I’m not in any trouble.’
A hint of curiosity in his mother’s aristocratic voice. ‘What do you need, then?’
‘I need to talk to Father. If I call his office and give my name they’ll tell me he isn’t there, or he’s in a meeting, or he’s on the moon.’
Her curiosity had suddenly turned to apprehension. ‘What do you want from your father?’
‘I need his car. For something serious. The first serious thing in my life.’
‘I don’t know, Russell. That may not be such a good idea.’
He had understood his mother’s hesitation. In a way, he felt sorry for her. She was caught between a rock and a hard place, her respectable husband on one side, her wayward son on the other. But he couldn’t give up now, couldn’t admit defeat, even if he had to beg.
‘I realize I’ve never done anything to deserve it, but I need your trust’
After a few moments Margaret Taylor Wade’s aristocratic voice admitted surrender.
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‘Your father’s at the New York office for a couple of days. I’ll talk to him now and call you back.’
This was an unexpected stroke of luck. Russell had felt euphoria spread through his body more effectively than any alcoholic drink.
‘My cellphone isn’t working. Just tell him I’m going to his office and I’ll wait there until he sees me. I won’t leave until he does, even if I have to wait all day.’
He paused. Then he said something he hadn’t said in years.
‘Thank you, Mother.’
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He hadn’t had time to hear her reply, because the call had been cut off as the last coin had fallen.
He had gone out on the street and invested his last few dollars in a taxi ride to 50th Street. Now he had been here for two hours, being stared at by people like Mr Klee, waiting for his father to grant him an audience. He knew he wouldn’t see him straight away, that he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to humiliate him by making him wait. But he didn’t feel humiliated at all, only impatient.
And he had waited.
A tall, elegant secretary had appeared in front of him. The carpet had muffled the sound of her heels in the corridor. She was beautiful, as the surroundings dictated, and he assumed that if she had been chosen for that job she was also highly efficient.
‘Mr Russell, please come with me. Mr Wade is waiting for you.’
He realized that, as long as his father was alive, there would only ever be one ‘Mr Wade’. But he could change that if he wanted, and he wanted it with all his might.
He got up from the armchair and followed the secretary down a long corridor. As he watched the woman’s bottom move gracefully under her skirt, he felt like smiling. Maybe a few days before he would have indulged in some vulgar comment, embarrassing the woman and consequently displeasing his father. Then he reminded himself that, until a few days earlier, he would never have dreamed of coming to this office to see Jenson Wade.
The secretary stopped in front of a dark wooden door. She knocked lightly and, without waiting for a response, opened the door and motioned to him to enter. Russell took a couple of steps and heard the swish of the door closing behind him.
Jenson Wade was sitting behind a desk placed diagonally between two corner windows that offered a breathtaking view of the city. The backlighting was compensated for by lamps artfully placed around the large room, which was one of his father’s command posts. They hadn’t met in person for a long time. He looked older but in excellent shape. Russell stood looking at him while he continued reading documents and ignoring him completely. Jenson was the image of his younger son. Or rather, it was Russell who bore a resemblance that had proved uncomfortable for both of them on several occasions in the past.
Jenson Wade raised his head and looked at him with steady, uncompromising eyes. ‘What do you want?’
His father didn’t like beating about the bush. Russell came straight to the point. ‘I need help. And you’re the only person I know who can give it to me.’
The reply was curt and predictable. ‘You aren’t getting a cent from me.’
Russell shook his head. Although he hadn’t been invited, he calmly chose an armchair and sat down. ‘I don’t need a cent from you.’
His father looked straight at him, without a trace of affection in his eyes. He must be wondering what Russell had got up to this time. But he found himself unexpectedly confronted with something new. His son had never before had the strength to sustain his gaze.
‘What do you want, then?’
‘I’m pursuing a lead on a news story. A big one.’
‘You?’
In that incredulous monosyllable, there were years of photographs in the scandal sheets, lawyers’ bills, betrayed trust, money thrown away. Years spent mourning two sons: one because he was dead, the other because he was doing everything he could to be considered dead.
And had finally succeeded.
‘Yes. I might add that many people will die if I don’t obtain your help.’
‘What kind of trouble have you got yourself into this time?’
‘I’m not in any trouble. But a lot of other people are, even though they don’t know it.’
Curiosity was starting to take hold. His voice softened a little. Maybe he had sensed that the person facing him had a decisiveness different from the Russell he was used to. But all those past disappointments obliged him to proceed with extreme caution.
‘What’s it all about?’
‘I can’t tell you. That’s a point against me, I know. I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me.’
He saw his father lean back in his chair and smile as if at a witty joke. ‘With you, the word trust seems a little out of proportion, to say the least. Why should I trust you?’
‘Because I’ll pay you.’
The smile became a sarcastic grimace. When it came to money, the powerful Mr Wade was on home ground. And Russell knew he had few equals there.
‘With what money, may I ask?’
He returned the smile. ‘I have something I’m sure you’re going to like more than money.’