‘What can you tell me about him?’ asked Townsend, unwilling to waste any more time on banalities.
‘Not a great deal,’ replied McCreedy as he studied the screen in front of him, occasionally pressing more keys. ‘He appears to be a model citizen. Rose through the ranks at the bank, treasurer of the local Rotary Club, Methodist lay preacher, married to the same woman for thirty-one years. Three children, all residing in the city.’
‘Anything known about the kids?’
McCreedy pressed some more keys before he replied. ‘Yes. One teaches biology in the local high school. The second’s a staff nurse at Cleveland Metropolitan, and the youngest has just been made a partner in the most prestigious law firm in the state. If you’re hoping to do a deal with Mr. Austin Pierson, Keith, you’ll be pleased to know that he seems to have an unblemished reputation.’
Townsend was not pleased to know. ‘So there’s nothing in his past that...’
‘Not that I know of, Keith,’ said McCreedy. He quickly read through his five-year-old notes, hoping to find a titbit that would please his former boss. ‘Yes, now it all comes back. The man was as tight as a gnat’s arse. He wouldn’t even allow me to interview him during office hours, and when I turned up at his place in the evening, all I got for my trouble was a watered-down pineapple juice.’
Townsend decided that he’d come to a dead end with Pierson and McCreedy, and that there wasn’t any purpose in continuing with the conversation. ‘Thank you, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Call me if you come up with anything on Pierson.’
He was just about to put the phone down when his former employee asked, ‘What was the other thing you wanted to discuss, Keith? You see, I was rather hoping that there might be an opening in Oz, perhaps even at the Courier.’ He paused. ‘I can tell you, Keith, I’d be willing to take a drop in salary if it meant I could work for you again.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Townsend, ‘and you can be sure I’ll get straight back to you, Malcolm, if anything should ever cross my desk.’
Townsend put the phone down on a man he felt sure he would never speak to again in his life. All that McCreedy had been able to tell him was that Mr. Austin Pierson was a paragon of virtue — not a breed with whom Townsend had a lot in common, or was at all certain he knew how to handle. As usual, E.B.’s advice was proving to be correct. He could do nothing except sit and wait. He leaned back in his chair and tucked one leg under the other.
It was twelve minutes past eleven in Cleveland, twelve minutes past four in London and twelve minutes past three in Sydney. By six o’clock that evening he probably wouldn’t be able to control the headlines in his own papers, let alone those of Richard Armstrong.
The phone on his desk rang again — was it possible that McCreedy had found out something interesting about Austin Pierson? Townsend always assumed that everyone had at least one skeleton they wanted to keep safely locked up in the cupboard.
He grabbed the phone.
‘I have the President of the United States on line one,’ said Heather, ‘and a Mr. Austin Pierson from Cleveland, Ohio, on line two. Which one will you take first?’
First Edition
Births, Marriages and Deaths
3
The Times
6 July 1923
Communist Forces at Work
There are some advantages and many disadvantages in being born a Ruthenian Jew, but it was to be a long time before Lubji Hoch discovered any of the advantages.
Lubji was born in a small stone cottage on the outskirts of Douski, a town that nestled on the Czech, Romanian and Polish borders. He could never be certain of the exact date of his birth, as the family kept no records, but he was roughly a year older than his brother and a year younger than his sister.
As his mother held the child in her arms she smiled. He was perfect, right down to the bright red birthmark below his right shoulderblade — just like his father’s.
The tiny cottage in which they lived was owned by his great-uncle, a rabbi. The rabbi had repeatedly begged Zelta not to marry Sergei Hoch, the son of a local cattle trader. The young girl had been too ashamed to admit to her uncle that she was pregnant with Sergei’s child. Although she went against his wishes, the rabbi gave the newly married couple the little cottage as a wedding gift.
When Lubji entered the world the four rooms were already overcrowded; by the time he could walk, he had been joined by another brother and a second sister.
His father, of whom the family saw little, left the house soon after the sun had risen every morning and did not return until nightfall.
Lubji’s mother explained that he was going about his work.
‘And what is that work?’ asked Lubji.
‘He is tending the cattle left to him by your grandfather.’ His mother made no pretense that a few cows and their calves constituted a herd.
‘And where does Father work?’ asked Lubji.
‘In the fields on the other side of town.’
‘What is a town?’ asked Lubji.
Zelta went on answering his questions until the child finally fell asleep in her arms.
The rabbi never spoke to Lubji about his father, but he did tell him on many occasions that in her youth his mother had been courted by numerous admirers, as she was considered not only the most beautiful, but also the brightest girl in the town. With such a start in life she should have become a teacher in the local school, the rabbi told him, but now she had to be satisfied with passing on her knowledge to her ever-increasing family.
But of all her children, only Lubji responded to her efforts, sitting at his mother’s feet, devouring her every word and the answers to any question he posed. As the years passed, the rabbi began to show interest in Lubji’s progress — and to worry about which side of the family would gain dominance in the boy’s character.
His fears had first been aroused when Lubji began to crawl, and had discovered the front door: from that moment his attention had been diverted from his mother, chained to the stove, and had focused on his father and on where he went when he left the house every morning.
Once Lubji could stand up, he turned the door handle, and the moment he could walk he stepped out onto the path and into the larger world occupied by his father. For a few weeks he was quite content to hold his hand as they walked through the cobbled streets of the sleeping town until they reached the fields where Papa tended the cattle.
But Lubji quickly became bored by the cows that just stood around, waiting first to be milked and later to give birth. He wanted to find out what went on in the town that was just waking as they passed through it every morning.
To describe Douski as a town might in truth be to exaggerate its importance, for it consisted of only a few rows of stone houses, half a dozen shops, an inn, a small synagogue — where Lubji’s mother took the whole family every Saturday — and a town hall he had never once entered. But for Lubji it was the most exciting place on earth.
One morning, without explanation, his father tied up two cows and began to lead them back toward the town. Lubji trotted happily by his side, firing off question after question about what he intended to do with the cattle. But unlike the questions he asked his mother, answers were not always forthcoming, and were rarely illuminating.
Lubji gave up asking any more questions, as the answer was always ‘Wait and see.’ When they reached the outskirts of Douski the cattle were coaxed through the streets toward the market.