‘Guess again,’ January snapped. ‘Sixteen million plus. You need to do your homework, Mr Squires. Is there anyone here from Cal TV, channel 8?’
‘Yessir.’ The speaker was a sun-bleached young woman who stood with her camera and sound team near the back of the room. All three were women.
‘Congratulations on your report on the Solomon Islands. I saw it on the satellite link at home. Would you like to ask a question?’
And that’s how it went on for the remaining few minutes. He killed them with a mixture of charm and sharp put-downs. When Gary wound it up there were more smiles than frowns among the reporters and Peter January had won himself an unprecedented eight minutes on prime time West Coast TV.
Back on the plane January returned Bolton’s cigarette lighter with a nod. Bolton was open-mouthed and kept staring at January as if he was a bald man who’d suddenly grown real hair.
‘That was fantastic,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled with…God, all the big ones, and I’ve never seen ‘em handled like that before.’
January winked. The steward came offering drinks and he waved him away. The wave appeared to include the rest of us because the steward retreated. I called him back.
‘Let’s see if they can make a wine and soda,’ I said.
January shook his head. ‘I’m off it for the duration. You need to be sharp with this mob. But you go ahead.’
‘Thanks, boss.’ I ordered drinks for Trudi, Gary, Martin and me. Bolton seemed prepared to follow January into hell and he refused a drink.
‘That was fine, Minister,’ Martin said after he’d tried his drink, ‘but I’m telling you, you still need a…’
‘Slogan,’ January said. ‘I know. I’m working on it.’ There was a note of dismissal in his tone and Martin moved back a row to confer with Bolton. The plane had emptied somewhat at Los Angeles and our group was gradually spreading itself. January made a side to side movement of his head which drew Trudi and me into conference. Gary Wilcox was studying a map of Washington, DC.
‘Speaking of working,’ January said, ‘what’ve you come up with on the threats?’
I looked at Trudi who raised an eyebrow which could have meant anything. I judged that January was high enough on success to take a pinch or two of bad news. ‘Nothing much, Peter,’ I kept my voice low. ‘Didn’t want to worry you with this before, but someone took a shot at Trudi the other night.’
‘What? Where?’
I gave him the details but didn’t mention the notes. His uncertainty returned in full measure. ‘Think I will have a drink, plenty of time before I have to do the performing monkey act again.’ He raised his hand to the steward. ‘Scotch and ice.’
Trudi and I sipped our drinks and January drummed his fingers on the armrest while he waited for his. When it came he sucked half of it down in a gulp.
‘Easy, Peter,’ Trudi said.
‘You’re saying easy and people are shooting at us.’
‘You’ve been shot at before.’
‘I could shoot back then. Who the fuck is this maniac? There must be some clues.’
‘As far as the sniper is concerned it looks as if it could be a wronged husband.’ I told him about the note. He finished his drink and rubbed his hand over the stubble that was beginning to sprout on his chin and cheeks. We’d been 18 hours in the air; my own face felt rough and dry and my operated-on eye was watering.
‘Things have got so crazy in this game,’ January said. ‘You should hear the letters some of the blokes get.’
‘You mean MPs, do you!’ Trudi said acidly. ‘I bet some of the women get good ones too.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry, they do. You’re right. They’re 99 per cent hoaxes of course, but there’s some provocateurs out there you wouldn’t believe.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Trudi said. Gary Wilcox was listening now but January didn’t appear to care. He flicked at the edge of his empty glass.
‘People get set up. Some of the journos’ll do it in small ways-spike drinks. Sometimes it gets rougher. There was a freelancer who rammed a Member’s car to get a drunk driving story on him.’
‘I heard about that,’ Gary said.
‘You heard about what happened to the reporter,’ January said.
Trudi didn’t wear makeup except a bit around the eyes and her short hair didn’t need any attention. She had on light, loose clothes and had kicked her shoes off. She looked the freshest of us all. ‘What did happen?’ she said.
‘Don’t ask. This could be the same. I wouldn’t put it past that shit Sammy Weiss to pull some stunts like this. How’d he get to the press conference the other day?’
‘Through me. He was useful. I think you’re on the wrong track, Peter. I suggest you give up women for a while.’
‘You believe this wronged husband shit?’
I shrugged. ‘For the shooting, maybe. I don’t know about the bomb.’
‘Well, anyway, I’ll be able to drop the playboy stuff soon. Karen and I’ll work something out.’
‘And you’ll be faithful and true while you’re over here?’ Trudi waved at the window. I supposed we were somewhere over the mid-West.
January grinned. ‘Not as easy as that. You’ve heard of Don Carver, haven’t you?’
‘Oh, shit!’ Gary said.
The name meant something to me but I wasn’t sure what. ‘Who’s he, the Ambassador or someone?’
January laughed hard. ‘No, we’ll be dealing with our peace ambassador, that’s Creighton Kirby and he hates my guts too.’
‘Too?’ I said.
‘I had a thing with his wife once. But I had a bigger thing with Carver’s wife. He’s the Washington correspondent for the Incorporated Press papers at home. He knows me; if I step out of character he’ll smell a rat and he’ll know where to look.’
‘ I hope Mrs Weiner knows how to send a discreet telegram then,’ I said.
January groaned. ‘Christ, so do I.’
13
January’s performance in Los Angeles had gone over big in a news-starved lull. The result was that it was bedlam at Kennedy Airport and more bedlam at La Guardia where we went to catch the shuttle to Washington. January loved it and kept it up. When a crew-cut reporter wearing a mustard-coloured suit with a dark shirt and tie shoved a microphone at him and screamed: ‘Are you a Red agent!’ January grinned and undid his belt.
‘Christ!’ Trudi said. ‘What’s he going to do?’
Martin covered his eyes and Gary Wilcox shrank back towards the potted palms. I was doing my steely-eyed, crowd-surveying number, but I saw January pull up the waistband of his jockey shorts.
‘I’m wearing red underpants,’ he said. He let the elastic snap back and re-fastened his belt. ‘And a blue tie and a white shirt. I’m wearing red, white and blue.’
A small cheer went up from the media mob which January silenced with an upraised palm. ‘Tell me, Mr…?’ He transfixed the crew-cut reporter with his hard blue eyes.
‘F…Fisher.’
‘Mr Fisher. Which way did you vote in the last Congressional election-Democrat or Republican?’
Fisher was no slouch; he recovered fast. The flush which had been spreading over his skull, visible under the thin crew-cut hair, died down. ‘You can’t ask that question of an American citizen. I want to know…’
‘You misunderstand,’ January said silkily. ‘I want to know if you voted either way.’
‘Well, no, I…’
‘You didn’t vote at all?’ January drew himself up and looked more than five foot eight or nine. ‘You’re not a serious political person and yours is not a serious political question.’ He flashed a smile. ‘And from your clothes my guess is you’re colour blind anyway. Next.’
The reporters lapped it up but January knew when to stop. One of the print men pushed forward and held out his hand. ‘G’die, mite,’ he said. ‘Gotta prahn fer th’ barby?’
January ignored the hand and turned to me. ‘What did he say?’ He spoke clearly enough for the mike to pick up his voice.
‘Search me,’ I said. ‘I think he’s French.’