But now they were coming back. This time it had been Paul’s turn. The limousine pulled into the driveway and the wheelchair was brought to the west entrance. The driver and the butler had already mastered the routine and Jacob was taken into the house smoothly, with no jarring, even as the chair was maneuvered through the narrow, timbered entrance hall. Ironically, we had been allocated the better wing of the house. The lounge of the east wing, where we made our base, was larger and airier than the one in the west wing, and it had taken me a while to figure out why we had been given preference. Then I remembered the little twist in the corridor at our end of the ‘lists’ and realized that the wheelchair would not go around it.
I did not need to be told that we would not be seeing Jacob immediately. He made use of his illness ruthlessly as a negotiating tool, using it to impose his own rhythm on whatever talks he was undertaking. I knew, too, that there would be some preliminary skirmishing and I guessed rightly that it would be handled by Robert.
Negotiating with any of the Sellingers always reminded me of repertory drama. The actors always knew their lines, and sometimes the performances were extremely polished, but they always seemed to lack the feeling of genuine emotion.
With the Family, emotions were as theatrical as the lines. Listening to them bargaining was like studying plays for an examination: ‘What was Robert Sellinger trying to convey when he lost his temper, or expressed sympathy with so-and-so, at such-and-such a point?’
In the first meeting I had with him in the central drawing room, he tried to convey two things: that they had a strong hand and were capable of doing me real harm, but that at the same time they recognized a worthy adversary and might well agree to an honorable compromise.
‘John, I think what we’re dealing with here is a major misunderstanding,’ was one of his opening phrases. It was a stock Sellinger line, as familiar as Robert’s blue cashmere blazer and near-military tie—his summer campaign suit, a political commentator had recently called it.
Under the smooth politician’s turn of phrase and the wary courtesy toward me, the content of what he was saying was totally preposterous, little more than a blatant trial balloon, in fact, to test my mood. The ‘misunderstanding’ was that I was reading too much into Paul’s determination to oust me as chief executive of World News. ‘Paul plays hard ball, sometimes,’ Robert said. ‘His tactics were rough, but he was acting in what he saw as the best interests of the agency. He believed you were not the man for the job—quite wrongly in my view,’ he added unctuously. ‘Clearly, he went over the top. The situation’s gone sour. A lot of bad feelings all around. It might be best in everyone’s interests if you both beat a retreat and called it a draw.’
When I tried to probe what he thought a draw might consist of, Robert immediately became vague, but I gathered it could involve both Paul and me leaving World News. It wasn’t specified what Paul might do, but some hints were subtly placed that there were at least two international media jobs about to become available, both more senior than my present one, and that might be a route that could be negotiated.
It was all so ridiculous that I didn’t let it go on for more than about twenty minutes. I didn’t lose my temper. I simply said that the problem, as Robert had presented it, didn’t seem to cover all the issues, which seemed a mild enough way, even for me, of referring to two attempts at murder and a campaign to sabotage the West’s most promising missile system.
Robert took the hint and suggested a short break. As I walked back down the corridor, treading the thick, rust-colored carpet Paul had laid in place of my old threadbare cream one, I noticed that the floorboard opposite the old rhododendrons still creaked. There are some things you just can’t cover up, you old swine, I thought cheerfully, and I stepped down extra hard so that the squeaking sounded right down the corridor.
I knew it would be Paul’s turn next and I was also ready for one of his usual touches of drama. I’d been around the Family so long now that I really was becoming used to their ways. I didn’t always feel I understood them, but I always knew them in the way I had come to ‘know’ the warring tribes in my early days as a correspondent in West Africa; I might not be close enough to them in background and upbringing to feel as they did, but I’d observed them so closely that I was rarely wrong when I predicted their patterns of action.
Paul’s little piece of dramatics was to throw on the table in front of me a package of photographs along the lines of the one he had used with Branston. In each, Seagull and I were the centerpiece in various positions of lovemaking, and I could tell from the shade of the coverlet and the pillows that they had been taken through the window of her flat in Hampstead. In each, observing faces had been added to give the impression that we had been the focus of an orgy and had put ourselves on show with heedless abandon.
‘Paul, you’re a fool,’ I said. ‘You simply don’t know when to quit.’
Sellinger’s eyes narrowed. ‘There are some things you can’t run away from,’ he said, bringing out his old line. ‘You may have scared Wint off and intimidated Lord Branston, but the Allenby scandal won’t go away. Wint only whetted the papers’ appetite; their own people are turning up stuff all the time. When they have enough, pictures like this will be on sale on every street corner.’
‘Paul,’ I said shortly, ‘get Robert in here.’
‘What for?’
‘Bring him, Paul,’ I said. ‘I’m saying nothing until you do.’
Paul pressed an intercom switch and Robert appeared down the corridor. He saw the pictures and looked at me.
‘Robert, I sent for you, because I don’t trust your brother to report back to you what I have to say,’ I said. ‘But first, we have to dispose of this nonsense.’
I gestured down at the photographs. ‘This kind of intimidation is pointless. Those photos are about as relevant as last week’s weather forecast. The Allenby scandal is dead. No one’s interested in the party any longer.’
I opened my attaché case and pulled out Beth Campbell’s affidavit.
‘Kent Allenby has the original of this,’ I said. ‘And every editor who received the original Wint material has a copy also. You can keep the dirty pictures for your album, Paul. It’s over. Now we can get down to the issues.’
I looked straight at Robert.
‘We’re dealing here with the story of a prodigal son,’ I said, ‘and we all know that little parable. The prodigal son in the Bible was a pain in the ass too, and I’ve always felt sorry for the older brother. But the biblical prodigal only spent his time screwing around and generally enjoying himself before he was welcomed back in the fold, whereas this prodigal here has been plotting to destroy you. The issues here, Robert, are treason, greed, and treachery, and the question is, why the hell you’re lying down for an agreement to cover them up.’
Robert went gray under his suntan and I knew I’d hit home. Jacob was for the closing of family ranks; Robert would have handed his brother to me with an apple in his mouth if the patriarch would allow.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘So it’s Jacob rules, as we Brits say, okay? The ties of blood must bind. Well, all right. So let’s take a look at what you’re binding around.
‘The issues were set out for you in New York by Nick Jopling: attempted murder, intent to commit treason, illegal stock manipulation, countless violations of international corporate law, and total, cynical treachery rooted in hatred of one brother for another.’
To his credit, Robert recovered well. The audience would only have seen a momentary fluff—a few lines lost and a brief gleam of purest hatred as he looked at Paul—in place of the brotherly love of the script.
He had the reputation of being the better performer of the two, and Jacob’s upbringing, combined with years of public relations and politics, saved him now.
‘We’ve looked at the documents Jopling brought,’ he said. ‘There’s not one damn thing in them to tie Paul in with what you’re alleging. The material related to the Seagull woman a
nd the material concerning Paul’s wife are obviously fraudulent. We’ll support a full investigation, as we have from the beginning. Our first impression is that the Soviets have moved in smartly to exploit a tense situation. The so-called ‘war’ between you and Paul was well-known. Not hard for any agent to make use of it. But that’s your concern. The intelligence agencies will be questioning you closely. None of this concerns Paul.’
Robert shuffled his papers again and produced photocopies of two large official documents. They were the reports of police investigations into the fire at St. Tropez and the explosion at Vaudur.
‘Take a look,’ Paul said. ‘Then quit accusing me of trying to murder you. There is nothing, repeat nothing, in those investigations that leads anywhere near me. Look hard and you’ll see they’re as good as closed.’
I’d already seen most of the Vaudur file, which Ryder had shown to me the previous evening, and I knew Sellinger was right. The police had cornered one of the men who had placed the plastic charge on the bedroom door and had put eleven bullets into him in a shootout in which one hotel guest and a valet had been injured. He’d been identified as a professional killer who had done political work for several terrorist organizations. The second man was believed to have already left France and there were no further leads. The St. Tropez file was even thinner. The fire marshal had returned a verdict of accidental fire setting and the police had closed the case. It was the price we had paid for getting out without being arrested ourselves.
‘These are all dead ends,’ Paul said. ‘None of your allegations are leading anywhere.’
‘To use a phrase of yours, Paul,’ I said, ‘there are some things you can’t just walk away from. Issues can be kept alive.’
‘Not these,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve seen the dossiers.’
‘There are other ways.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s a point I’d like to bring someone else in on,’ I said. ‘They’re close at hand. I’ll send for them now.’
We broke off again and Cox made a phone call to a coaching inn at Melford where one of our three groups was waiting. I went back to the central drawing room and watched with the Sellingers as the metallic-gray BMW slid swiftly down Sam-man’s Lane.
Both scanned the passengers anxiously and when Paul recognized Nancy, he whirled on me.
‘What the hell is she doing here?’
‘As I recall it,’ I said calmly, ‘she owns the place. She’s probably coming to see you haven’t burned any cigarette holes in the carpets.’
But it was the man with her who gave Paul the first indication of her real purpose. The stylishly waved gray hair and hooked nose, together with the slight stoop, were well-known as belonging to Sir Michael Tudor-Hyde, the leading divorce lawyer in London.
‘What the fuck is this charade about?’ Paul said angrily. Nancy stared back at him unmoved, looking cool and elegant in a plain navy-blue dress.
‘It’s not a charade, I’m afraid,’ Sir Michael said genially. ‘I try to deal with these matters with as little acrimony as possible, but your wife has asked me to announce her intention to seek a divorce.’
I could see that Robert was surveying the situation warily, but Paul plunged on.
‘This is a business meeting.’ He glared at Nancy. ‘I’ll talk to you later. Go and wait in the study.’
Sir Michael glanced inquiringly at Paul, as though checking that he had finished, then continued, unruffled, as though nothing had been said.
‘I believe the grounds for the divorce are the relevant point here,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a number of items raised, but I’m afraid the principal one is that of attempted murder.’
Nancy looked at Paul with a steady gaze. She was turning out to be the best performer of all of them, I thought. I had talked to her less than two hours before and I knew that she had been terrified.
‘I’m very ashamed to be so scared,’ she’d said, with a little squeeze of my hand. ‘It’s one thing to plan to take on Paul. When you have to face him, it’s not quite the same thing.’
But neither brother could have told.
Very deliberately, she took a step closer to Paul. ‘I’m going to use everything, Paul,’ she said, ‘starting with Vaudur. I’m going to explain in open court why I believed you tried to kill me and John. And I shall bring in the Dahran document and call Ackerman to testify. I may not prove it all, but by God I’ll give it a good airing.’
Paul started to take a step toward her. His fist was clenched and his eyes bitter and black. Both Tudor-Hyde and I moved to intervene, but it was Robert who got in first.
It was clearly time for a trip to the locker room, and while the brothers went to talk to Jacob, I led Nancy and Tudor-Hyde back to the east wing.
We stood around in an oddly formal group, as though we were already in the corridor of the law courts, and said very little.
Tudor-Hyde passed the time with a few pleasantries, and when the call came, we all walked back to the central drawing room.
‘As far as we’re concerned, this thing is over,’ Paul said, before we were all settled in. ‘My father is leaving. He’s not well. He’s returning to New York for medical treatment.’
‘You can’t run, Paul,’ I said quietly. ‘This time, it really won’t go away.’
‘There’s nothing to go away,’ Paul said. ‘Let it all come out.’ He looked at Nancy. ‘Go ahead, make a fool of yourself in the courts. We’ll all enjoy hearing you describe your night back in the arms of your former husband. Great for establishing your credibility. All you have is allegations. No evidence and no witnesses. And don’t count on Mr. Ackerman,’ he added with a sneer. ‘He was shot dead this morning.’
‘What!’ I said. ‘How?’
‘Who cares how?’ Paul said contemptuously. ‘Ask your friend Ryder. There was an order out to blow him away.’
‘Which made him the perfect conduit for your file?’ I said.
‘Bullshit. This talk is air, strictly air.’
It was the moment I’d been preparing for. Our bluff was now finally being called. I made a sign to Tudor-Hyde, who took up his cue smoothly.
‘Mr. Sellinger,’ he said, ‘it is true that your wife’s case is not yet complete. However, we expect with some confidence that supporting evidence will begin to emerge, once the general substance of our case is disclosed to the reporters assigned to analyze this situation. I think it wise to warn you that I’ve been authorized to make disclosure of our grounds to them.’
‘Who the hell are you talking about?’ Paul snapped. ‘What reporters?’
‘I can’t tell you about that,’ I said. ‘It’s really a question of pulling this whole thing together. What we have here is a very simple story. Paul, you tried to cause the cancelation of the Starburst missile program by leaking secrets to the Russians. To cover yourself, you tried to set me up as a traitor and you twice tried to kill me, as well as two other people in the process. You did all of this out of greed and out of jealousy of your brother, and the determination that you, not he, would be master of the Sellinger Corporation with all that the position entailed in American political and corporate life.
‘A simple story, but unfortunately, with too many shadowy facets for a news agency to handle. Usually, I like World News to tell its own stories. I hate to pass over a good scoop to somebody else. But this is a special case. This story is better told by an outsider—someone who can look objectively at all the material we can make available.’
I turned to Robert, ignoring Paul. ‘I think we’re lucky that we’ve found the right man. He’s here in Axton, having lunch at the moment at the Goose and Firkin. You all know Gerry Deighton. You’ll agree he’s right for this. I’d say he’s the best investigative reporter working today and he’s syndicated in the States and Britain. Plenty of good scalps under his belt. Multinationals. Drug companies.’ I smiled. ‘Made a bit of a dent in the Democratic party over the Hadcombe business, so no problem with his objectivity there.’
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‘Jesus God Almighty,’ Paul roared. ‘You goddam stupid motherfucker! You mean you’ve talked to Gerry Deighton about this?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I plan to brief him right after your departure.’
Paul’s mask had finally slipped, and it was almost a comic moment. His look of outrage had nothing to do with any stage-managed Sellinger performance. One of the most powerful figures in the world media had been totally uprooted by the idea that anyone might actually publish something. Watching his face, I really believe it hadn’t occurred to him that this might happen. These were negotiations; the stuff of smoke-filled rooms and deals and trading for power and gain. Calling in Gerry Deighton was the ultimate act of sacrilege, and I knew I had finally gotten to him.
He was so angry he really couldn’t speak, but Robert moved in swiftly. ‘Let’s hold this right there while I go talk to Jacob,’ he said, and I knew I’d finally won my ride in the limousine.
When I was taken to the Cadillac, Jacob was already inside. I stepped in and sat beside him, and the driver pulled carefully away up Samman’s Lane. To say we were sharing the back seat would be an exaggeration. I could have had almost nine-tenths of its width while Jacob’s tiny frame, hunched in the corner, seemed almost to be perching on the huge, padded elbow rest. In silhouette against the sunlight, his parchment-like skin was almost translucent and I noticed for the first time that his eyelids had a curious violet tinge to them.
He looked me up and down for a minute, then said in a reedy, almost scratchy voice which still had traces of his original Swiss-German accent in it, ‘Mr. Railton, why are you so anxious to destroy me?’
As Paul and Robert must often have done, I wondered how many years Jacob would go on using his frail, dying-man routine.
‘Because you’ve sired a worthless and treacherous son and if you’re determined to protect him, you may have to go down with him,’ I said.
Jacob inclined his head slightly and seemed not to have heard the answer.
‘And why do you wish to destroy yourself? Have you an answer for that too?’
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