He put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a sheet of letter paper folded in three. He opened it, got up from his armchair and placed it carefully on the desk in front of his father. Jenson Wade picked up his pair of glasses and read what was written on the paper.
I, the undersigned, undertake to work for WadeEnterprises for three years from the beginning of Junethis year for the sum of one dollar per month.
Russell Wade
Russell saw first surprise, then temptation, play over his father’s face. The thought of having him in his power, being able to humiliate him just as he liked, must be an enticing prospect. The sight of Russell in coveralls, cleaning the floors and the toilets, would surely take many years off him.
‘Let’s say I agree. What would I have to do?’
‘You have a whole lot of connections in Washington. Or rather you have a whole lot of people in your pocket, both in politics and in the army.’
He took his father’s silence as a self-satisfied admission of his power.
‘I’m following a lead, but I’ve come up against a brick wall and I don’t see any way of getting through it. Maybe with your help I could.’
‘Go on.’
Russell approached the desk. From his pocket he took the photograph of the young man and the cat. Before handing over the original to Vivien he had scanned it and printed a spare copy for himself. He had felt a little guilty at the time, but now he was glad he’d done it.
‘It’s something connected with the Vietnam war. From 1970 onwards. I have the name of a soldier called Wendell Johnson and this photograph of an unknown man who fought with him. I think both of them were involved in something unusual, something that’s still classified. I need to know what it is. And I need to know as soon as possible.’
Jenson Wade thought about it for quite a while, pretending to look at the images. Russell did not know that it wouldn’t be his words that convinced his father, but the tone in which he had said them. That impassioned tone that only the truth possesses.
He saw his father indicate the armchair in front of the desk. ‘Sit down.’
When Russell was seated, Jenson Wade pressed a key on the telephone.
‘Miss Atwood, get me General Hetch. Now.’
While waiting, he put the call on speakerphone. It occurred to Russell that there were two reasons for that. The less important was to allow him to hear the subsequent conversation. The other, the main reason, was that he was about to give Russell yet another demonstration of what his father’s name meant.
After a while, a rough, slightly hoarse voice floated into the room. ‘Hi, Jenson.’
‘Hi, Geoffrey, how are you?’
‘Just finished a game of golf.’
‘Golf? I didn’t know you played golf. One of these days we’ll have to have a game.’
‘That’d be good.’
‘You can count on it.’
At this point, the courtesies were over. Russell knew his father spent huge sums every year to keep his phones safe from tapping, so he was sure this would be a call in which both men said what they meant.
‘Good. What can I do for you?’
‘I need a big favour, something only you can do for me.’
‘Try me.’
‘It’s really very important. Do you have pen and paper handy?’
‘Just a moment.’
General Hetch was heard asking someone near him for a sheet of paper and something to write with. A moment later, he came back on the phone and into the office. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Write down this name. Wendell Johnson. Vietnam War, 1970 or later.’
The silence indicated that the general was writing.
‘Johnson, you said?’
‘Yes.’ Jenson Wade waited a moment before continuing. ‘He and another soldier were involved in something that’s still classified. I want to know what.’
Russell realized that his father, in telling the general what he wanted, had used almost the same words with which he had earlier formulated his request.
That little touch put him in a good mood.
From the other end of the phone came an energetic protest – ‘Jenson, I can’t just go rummaging around in-’ which was strangled at birth by Jenson Wade’s harsh voice.
‘Yes, you can. If you think about it, you’ll see you can.’
That phrase was full of innuendo, allusions to things only the two of them knew.
The general’s tone changed abruptly. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Give me twenty-four hours.’
‘I’ll give you one.’
‘But, Jenson-’
‘Call me as soon as you have anything. I’m in New York.’
Jenson hung up before the general had time to reply. He got up from his chair and threw a distracted glance out the window. ‘Now we just have to wait. Have you eaten?’
Russell realized he was starving. ‘No.’
‘I’ll tell my secretary to bring you something. I have some people to meet with in the conference room. I’ll be back by the time Hetch calls.’
Without saying another word, he went out, leaving Russell alone to breathe the air in the office, which smelled of expensive cigars, wood, and secret passages. He went to the window and stood there for a few moments looking out at that endless horizon of roofs, with the East River in the middle like a street of water glittering in the sun.
After a while the door opened and the secretary entered with a tray. There was a plate covered with a silver lid, and next to it a half bottle of wine, a glass, bread and flatware. She put the tray down on a small glass table in front of the couch.
‘Here you are, Mr Russell. I took the liberty of ordering your steak rare. Is that OK?’
‘Perfect.’
Russell walked towards the woman, who was standing there, looking at him curiously. And somehow suggestively. With a smile on her lips, her head tilted to one side, and her long hair tumbling over her shoulders.
‘You’re very famous, Russell,’ she said. ‘And very handsome.’
‘Do you think so?’
She took a step forward. In her hand she clutched a business card. With a smile, she slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘I’m Lorna. This is my number. Call me if you like.’
He watched her as she walked to the door. Before going out she turned one last time, invitation still in her eyes.