by Ridge King
“Sometimes.”
“Mostly in South America, right?” asked Jack.
Jack noted she stalled by taking up her iced tea and slowly sipping through the straw.
“Mostly, yes. Central and South America, but really all over the world.”
“Most of the wire instructions come through Derek’s office, correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Gilbertson handles a lot of our DIB work.”
At the mention of Derek’s name, Jack could tell Lucy was choosing her words very carefully. Jack knew that Lucy (like just about everybody else in the whole wide world) knew that Jack had once had an affair with Raven, but that had been before she married Derek. Jack considered himself to be on “good terms” with Derek. That didn’t mean he liked the guy, but there had never been any problems between the two men.
“Who’s the main contact at DIB?”
“Howard Rothman.”
“That makes sense. Derek’s been friends with him for years,” said Ramona.
“True,” said Jack, “but Howard’s only been with DIB for, what, two years or so?”
“Three and a half,” said Lucy.
“I want you to give Jack everything he needs on this, all right, Lucy?”
“Of course, Señora Fuentes, whatever you say. What about Mr. Prober?”
“He’s to know nothing of this. Nothing,” said Ramona. “It’s not a good idea for you to come to the office, Jack.”
“I agree. I don’t want anybody to see me there meeting with Lucy.”
“It would raise suspicions.”
“Especially if Derek got wind of anything.”
“Especially Derek,” said Ramona.
“What is it you’re actually looking for?” asked Lucy. “I can pull whatever you want and send it to you, or even bring it to you to go over it with you.”
“Yes, that would be best. I’ll have a lot of questions. What I’m looking for is a comprehensive list of the vendors or merchants or payees money is wired to through DIB that’s authorized by Derek and Howard.”
“That’s simple enough,” said Lucy, and Jack knew immediately that there was nothing “simple” about it at all. Either Lucy was very stupid or she was very smart and was playing dumb.
“My problem is identifying the eventual recipient of the wire transfers. Once money is wired into an account, let’s say, in Buenos Aires, it gets wired out of that bank into another account at another bank.”
“And usually in another country,” added Lucy, sipping through her straw.
“Making the trail hard to follow.”
“Impossible to follow,” said Lucy, who realized she’d said something categorical and didn’t want her boss or St. Clair to think she was trying to put them off. “Usually,” she added. “Usually impossible.”
“You’d have to have someone on the other end, at the receiving bank in Buenos Aires, let’s say, who could follow the trail from there.”
“That would be invaluable, of course, if you wanted to find out who eventually ended up with the money.”
Ramona took one of Jack’s oysters when they arrived, but Lucy politely declined. Jack had another beer.
Jack set up a time to meet Lucy and then Lucy excused herself and returned to work.
“She’s a good girl.”
“You don’t trust this guy Prober who’s head of the department, but her. Why?”
“Héctor trusted her. He really believed in her. Told me more than once he was going to replace Danny—his name’s Danny Prober—with Lucy one of these days. He just never got around to it before he—”
“Yeah,” Jack said after a respectful pause.
“Babe tells me you’re headed back to Washington tonight.”
“Yeah. She’s dying to go to the ball tomorrow. Dad will be Norwalk’s special guest, sit on the dais with him. That’s how we got invited.”
“I wish Sofia could be with your father.”
“She does, too.”
“I’ll go see her tomorrow.”
“She’d like that.”
There was a pause as Ramona looked out over the water and listened to the rigging clanking against the sailboat masts. She breathed in deeply.
“Héctor used to bring me here,” said Ramona. “Every now and then we’d come here and he’d eat raw oysters just like you had. He’d plow through three dozen, sometimes four. Never eat anything but oysters. Found a pink pearl once.” She fingered a pink pearl hanging around her neck. “I’ve always worn it. He found it on our anniversary when we were sitting right here at this table. He said here at Monty’s you could smell the sea, the salt in the air. He loved it.”
“It would be real nice if Héctor could spend five minutes with us right now and clarify everything.”
Ramona raised a well-manicured finger to touch her temple.
“He kept so much of it in here. He could dance circles around any banker or lawyer when it came to money. He knew how to handle it. I think of Derek or that idiot Howard Rothman. If Héctor found out they were playing any games, he’d have them in jail before they knew what hit them. If only he’d had a little more time.”
“I know,” said Jack. “That’s one thing we never get enough of.”
“Time,” Ramona agreed, turning now to look out at the long shadows forming around the yachts lined side by side down the long dock.
Chapter 22
Table Twelve
One rule in Washington never changes: things are never precisely what they seem. They may be what they seem. It’s just that they are all too often so much more than they seem. The Thanksgiving party at Horizon would seem to be a mere gathering of an elite social clique. It would be that, of course. The reasons behind the gathering are unstated but clear to all participants. Men and women who attend such functions for the sole purpose of influencing others are also trying to escape being influenced themselves. Risking pressure is the prime offering anyone who attends a Washington party can give. Your presence means that you are in some way vulnerable, but it also means that you’re dangerous. People become inured to such risks. The attitude soon becomes similar to that towards violent death: it always happens to someone else.
It’s possible, if you’re someone of consequence, for you to attend a large party in Washington every single afternoon and evening of the year and still not attend them all. If you’re not someone of consequence, it’s possible you won’t attend a single one. Though the pace of Washington party-going slows when Congress is in recess, it never really stops.
Occasionally, there are social events that are not designed to influence anybody or serve any purpose beyond that for which they are purportedly held. Such an event was the National Geographic Society Annual Ball and dinner to honor the sitting President of the United States. This was an event around which there was supposed to be no politicking. But by the necessity of inviting senior members of Congress, the distinguished governing board of the Society couldn’t really keep the beast away. It follows where the power goes, as naturally as the night follows the day.
Every year the grand reception room in the building was cleared of its French and Italian furniture and tables set up. A platform was raised to accommodate dignitaries. Flowers and tablecloths came out in great abundance, the soft fragrances of spring filling the formal room with its parquet floors and marble walls. The ballroom was cleaned annually before the event, its dark wooden floors shining against the brilliance of the chandeliers. The Washington Symphony went into rehearsals two months in advance to prepare the program. The White House was asked which tunes the President expressly wished played. The event was to honor him, and Society press releases constantly referred to that fact, hoping that such repeated exhortations would keep the occasion nonpartisan, or, which was the best that could be expected in Washington, that partisan business remain below the surface. This usually happened because Washingtonians were masters of the quiet remark, casual reference and understated lead. It was expected that the event would come off with its usual magnificen
ce and splendor—an event meant to honor the institution of the Presidency as much as the man in it.
Patricia Vaughan picked up Jonathan at the W in the Mercedes limo. She was tempted to ask what Rolando was going to do all night while Jonathan was at the ball, but she didn’t want to be snarky and decided to let sleeping dogs lie.
The sky had begun to cloud up that day and snow was expected soon.
When they arrived, they were seated at table twelve. Well, she was seated. Jonathan immediately abandoned her to talk to some friends over in the corner. Also at the table were the Turners, the Larry Kellermans, the Overtons and others. Mr. Turner complained to Congressman Kellerman because Jane forced him to leave Spain, while Patricia and Jane gabbed.
Patricia was pleased to see the handsome Jack Houston St. Clair and Babe Fuentes walk up to table twelve.
“Patricia, how are you?” asked Jack as he came around to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Fine, Jack, you?”
“Great. And here’s Babe.”
Actually, Patricia knew Raven much better than Babe, but she let it go.
“You look stunning tonight,” said Patricia as she exchanged kisses with Babe.
Babe raised an eyebrow as she gave Patricia the once over.
“So do you, Patricia, so do you.”
Patricia could sense instantly that Babe was used to quick appraisals of other women’s interest in Jack. Any woman with Jack Houston St. Clair had to be supremely confident. Jack was such a catch. And, since it was no secret that Patricia Vaughan’s husband was gay, women were abnormally suspicious of Patricia, always questioning her motives.
Jonathan made a beeline for table twelve the minute he spied Jack pulling out a chair for Babe.
“Jack, how are you?”
“Great, Jonathan, just great.”
Jonathan gave Jack’s hand a manly shake and kissed Babe.
“You’re looking delicious, Babe,” said Jonathan.
After settling Babe, Jack went around the table greeting everyone before returning to Jonathan.
“Where’s Bedelia?”
“She’s at table two,” said Jonathan, pretending to be miffed that his mom got a better table assignment than he did.
“I’ll just go say Hi—haven’t seen her in ages,” said Jack, moving off.
Everybody knew Bedelia was much more important than Jonathan. She and Jonathan’s father had been member of the St. Clair Island Club, which is how they all knew Jack. Jonathan still went down twice a year to play golf. It was more exclusive than Augusta National, and, like the course at Augusta, had been designed by the legendary Bobby Jones.
When Jack got back and took his seat next to Babe, Patricia noticed there were just two empty seats left.
Across the room she saw William Crampton and Matt Hawkins come in together, laughing and talking, Crampton pointing out various people as they looked across the large room filled with over eighty tables, crammed with the powerful and socially important of Washington.
“Who’s that with Bill Crampton?” Jane asked, looking over Patricia’s shoulder.
Patricia looked over her shoulder across the room at the young congressman-elect from Wyoming. She thought him unusually handsome and admired his healthy tan and head of heavy dark hair. His hair was in perfect contrast to Jonathan’s fine blond hair. She noticed that his broad shoulders had no need of even the discreet padding that Jonathan’s required.
“I don’t know. I never saw him before.”
Patricia found herself wishing that Crampton and the handsome young man would fill the two seats opposite her, but she didn’t know who was supposed to fill them. She hadn’t bothered to glance at the place cards when she sat down because her seat was on the opposite side.
She and Jane watched as the men talked, as Crampton put his arm around Matt’s shoulder and led him over to a table, introducing him to various persons sitting there, then to another table, then another. They were nearing table twelve when, at the next table, they were stopped by the venerable Lamar Perryman, who had entered and was making his way to the platform, where the speaker sat every year. They were almost right behind Patricia and Jane, who had turned back to their table but listened to the conversation.
“Well, well, well,” said Crampton. “It looks like you’ll be way above us all, Mr. Speaker.”
“It’s about time, Congressman,” chuckled Perryman, his considerable chin almost covering his black tie. “I used to be at table one, but I don’t know if they give the platform a number.”
“Perhaps minus one,” suggested Crampton, laughing.
“I hope you enjoy your first Society ball, sir,” said Perryman, looking at Matt.
“I don’t know if I will or not, Mr. Speaker,” said Matt. “I haven’t got a date.”
“Well, you look around. You’ll find somebody free for a dance or two, I don’t doubt that.”
“You’d better get up there, Mr. Speaker,” said Crampton. “The President will be here any minute.”
“I will, sir. Where will you sit?”
“Right here, table twelve.”
Patricia froze and her eyes opened with excited expectation. She couldn’t wait to talk to the new man. Obviously, he knew Perryman on more than a formal basis. Perryman was seldom outgoing with anyone. And yet even with her back turned she detected Matt’s quality of frank friendliness. She saw Perryman walk past her table and through the others. She saw him stop on his way to the platform to speak to Ambassador Lord Ellsworth and French Ambassador André Girard.
Crampton and Matt went around the table, found their place cards and prepared to sit, but Crampton spoke to the table first.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s good to see everyone. I know everybody here, but I’m afraid no one knows the man who has come with me this evening.” He looked at Matt. “This is Matt Hawkins, the man who defeated me in the primary and the election. We’re still friends, though,” he smiled. “And, Matt, I especially want you to meet Jack Houston St. Clair, son of the man I support that you’re not voting for,” Crampton added with a laugh.
“Nothing personal, Jack,” said Matt.
“I completely understand,” said Jack as they shook. He introduced him to Babe.
“You might know that Jack is really a Democrat. He doesn’t see eye-to-eye with his dad on everything.”
“That’s saying it mildly,” said Jack with a smile, “but on the major issues dividing the country, I do support my dad.”
Everyone at the table looked closely at Hawkins as he and Crampton sat down. They all knew that Crampton had been defeated, but no one gave much thought to the man who would replace him. Just another freshman. Patricia Vaughan knew the name well, though. She remembered that this same Hawkins was the only refusal she received of all her invitations. Before sitting he held his hands by his sides and she looked at them. They were strong hands, the veins stood out on them and yet they didn’t look rough and old, but powerful and sure, experienced and tried. He looked young and yet his whole strong body seemed older from experience.
Jane Turner smiled at the young congressman-elect when she was introduced. Jonathan Vaughan merely glanced at him before turning his attention back to the platform, which was filling up.
The President had just entered the room from a door near the platform. He was the last to take his seat among the elevated dignitaries, which included Perryman, Vice President Coker, the Thurstons, Governor St. Clair, members of the governing board and other dignitaries, including the chief justice and his wife.
Jane was talking to Patricia about the fact that President Norwalk did not have a date this year.
“He always brings someone,” she said.
“I know,” said Patricia, not really caring about Norwalk.
The prestigious head of the Society rose and went to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is with the greatest honor that I again welcome you to this annual occasion in honor of the President of the United St
ates. As you know, this is President Norwalk’s eighth and last time with us. The Constitution forbids us to honor him again.”
There was light laughter at the gentleman’s reference to the Constitutional prohibition against a man holding office for more than two terms.
“However, I can assure the President that we will invite him back next year to sit at table one.” There was further laughter.
“It is with the greatest respect for the man and the office which he holds, and with full knowledge of how ably he has served our country these past eight years, that I give you President Jeffrey Norwalk.”
Norwalk received a standing ovation as he rose and placed himself before the microphone, his hands holding the sides of the lectern and his face smiling above his black tie. He nodded several times to his audience before everyone sat down.
“One reason I wanted to come back all these years,” he said, looking at the head of the Society, “was because you always serve such excellent meals.” There was laughter throughout the room. “The White House chef doesn’t speak to me for days after this annual event.” More laughter. “Once he called me, the commander-in-chief, a deserter.” After more laughter subsided, Norwalk praised the good works of the Society and the noble purposes for which it stood.
“I know it is customary for the winner of the election to sit on the platform in an election year, but tonight there are still two candidates. I know that everyone, including the two gentlemen here, wonders what the answer will be to the $64,000 thousand dollar question.” There was some laughter. “But seriously, I am happy that this occasion is a nonpartisan one, that it is bright, charming and casual. There have been too few of them lately here in Washington. I hope that my tenure in the White House will be of value to the next President, whoever he may be, and that he will have the support of the entire country in his efforts to preserve the peace of the world.” Loud applause greeted Norwalk as he made this statement.
After a few more minutes, Norwalk returned to his seat to another standing ovation. Lamar Perryman rose to introduce Frederick Thurston.
“Lookin’ round me on the platform here, I see I’m the only Southerner. Well, more’s the pity for that.” Laughter filtered through the room. “I am pleased to have the honor as speaker of the House to introduce to you the senior senator from Michigan, not a bad state, even though it is north of the Mason and Dixon line. I figure,” he said rubbing his chin and teasing the audience, “that if I am allowed to be speaker, anything can happen, and that he has a pretty good chance of being the next President. I give you Frederick B. Thurston.” There was heavy laughing and applause as Thurston received just short of a complete ovation.