by Ridge King
“Oh, darling,” she said finally, after he brought her up to date.
“Scary, isn’t it?” he said.
“Frightening. What will you do?”
“I don’t know what to do. I guess it’ll wear off—this numbness at seeing him in the Oval Office under the circumstances, and the offer he made.”
“I know what you feel like. That’s how I felt when he walked up to Jonathan and me at the ball and asked me to dance. Numb, senseless. You have the feeling that he could step on you and no one would notice you were gone.”
“There’s a strange power about that office, you have to admit.”
“I won’t argue.”
“Although I know what you mean, why do you say it’s frightening?”
“Well,” she said, rolling over on her back as the sheet slid down over her smooth breasts, uncovering them, “I just think it’s different in your case. I’ve seen them take a man’s heart and soul and stretch it until you’d swear it would break. Sometimes they don’t. But they can wring every ounce of honesty out of a man, make a shell out of him. If you don’t give in to the White House on something like this, they can make a living hell for you. Investigations, lousy committee assignments, no publicity, a big fight for you when you come up for reelection—they can do a lot. Look what they have to fight you with—the Justice Department, the IRS, the FBI—all those agencies and they all look to one boss and he sits in the white mansion.”
“The thing that makes me want to take him up on his offer is the way it allows me to avoid being a congressman at all. I know how shitty it is for them, especially freshmen. You can’t do squat until you’re there a few terms.”
“That’s very true. As a freshman senator you’d have much more power and prestige.”
He reached over and softly placed a flat hand on her smooth breasts.
“Does that attract you?”
He noticed a certain negative tone in her diction, in her use of “power and prestige.”
“No, Matt. I’ve seen congressmen and senators all my life—they don’t impress me any more. I think of them now as men and women who just happen to be in certain positions, some more powerful than others, that’s all.” He frowned. “But it’s your decision, you have to make it,” she said, her head turned on the pillow looking at him.
“It attracts me, I can’t lie to you,” he said, stretching an open palm over her breasts and caressing them gently with his fingers, then tracing the slope of her breasts up to her neck and back down under the sheet to her flat soft stomach where he let it stay, warm against her. “If I can bypass all those years in the House, things would come to me so much quicker.”
“I didn’t come to you because of what you are or aren’t in Congress.”
“That’s different.”
“Think about it.”
* * *
As Patricia rolled over to be closer to Matt, Lord Ellsworth was just finishing a dinner with Kornilevski at the Russian Embassy.
“That was a very good cut of roast beef, Fyodor.”
“Thank you, Harold. I thought you might want something to remind you of home.”
“A glass or two of the fine port you served me last time would be a good way to finish the evening.”
“I thought you might like that, so I have it right here.”
Kornilevski nodded to a butler who brought a tray from the sideboard and placed it in front of Kornilevski, who poured out two glasses of the Graham’s ’91.
“Ah, thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” said Ellsworth as he took a dainty sip.
“My pleasure, Mr. Ambassador,” Kornilevski laughed. He nodded to the butler. “Leave us.”
The butler and two footmen left the room. When the door was closed behind them, Kornilevski leaned forward.
“We have to determine how we are going to rid ourselves of this pest, this Hawkins.”
“I know,” said Ellsworth.
“I think, Mr. Ambassador, that he is the only fool left in Washington,” said Kornilevski.
“Or the only honest man,” countered Ellsworth. “Watching him reminds me of something Shakespeare said: ‘Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.’ ”
The poetry was lost on Kornilevski.
“He’s the only man who could say such things and at the same time believe every word,” said the Russian.
“I tell you, sir, I am convinced from my brief interview with him, the substance of which I have told you, that he will never succumb to moral pressures of any kind. I am certain the President will not entice him with Mr. Perryman’s offer of a seat in the Senate. It goes too strongly against his moralistic nature. He’s too young to concede that he would be better off to accept such a proposal. The young, I am afraid, value their morals more than we value ours.”
“He is intransigent!” shouted Kornilevski, rising ominously from his chair.
“Quite so,” nodded Ellsworth quietly.
Kornilevski leaned over towards the Englishman with a dark look in his eyes.
“Are you thinking what I am thinking, Lord Ellsworth?”
“I cannot quite ascertain what you are thinking, sir, so I cannot really say,” replied Ellsworth slowly and steadily, not liking the tone of the Russian’s voice.
“I am thinking that we—you and I—must act to remove him—remove this Hawkins once and for all!”
“In what way, remove?” asked Ellsworth even more quietly.
“Eliminated at all costs,” said Kornilevski heatedly.
“Killed, you mean,” stated Ellsworth almost placidly, though his mind was a jumbled mixture of conflicting thoughts.
“Exactly that.”
Kornilevski paced up and down. Ellsworth thought of that day seemingly long before when German Ambassador Meitner had suggested the possibility of killing someone to get St. Clair elected.
“Lord Ellsworth,” said the Russian, “we are so close, so close to getting St. Clair approved: how can we afford to allow this Hawkins, this speck, to frustrate our efforts to contain China? We have come too far, expended too much energy and time, risked our positions here in Washington and our careers at home too often to allow him to casually thwart our intentions. We cannot do it!” shouted Kornilevski with passion.
Ellsworth sat apparently unmoved. His face betrayed not the slightest emotion either way. Kornilevski thought as he looked at the man that the British were more inscrutable than the Chinese, and that he might have been wrong to suggest Hawkins’s murder to the old ambassador. He wondered if it might not have been better for him to work out the details alone. Or to call in his own people. But his people would want to know things Kornilevski couldn’t tell them until he had Slanetti where he wanted him with regard to the Keystone File. He didn’t dare. And time was running short.
Ellsworth for his part was deep in thought. He’d met Hawkins twice. He didn’t really know the man. He liked him, had a good impression of him, saw the great potential in his career in the United States in his personality alone, and there were many other factors. He was young, true, but he was also forceful, determined, strong, convincing, convinced and eager. He had many, many fine qualities. The only thing Ellsworth didn’t like about Matt Hawkins was his position supporting Thurston. How different things might have been for Hawkins, thought Ellsworth, if he had been a Republican, or had been for St. Clair, or had been—he knew he could go on forever thinking such things.
He had to decide how to respond to Kornilevski’s suggestion; it was a serious one. All that the Russian said was true. They had come extremely far. And they had taken chances. If Whitehall ever found out about his covert activities favoring St. Clair, he’d certainly be recalled and sent to some minor post in Africa or South America, if he wasn’t drummed out of the Foreign Service altogether. It would humiliate him and his family beyond all possibility of official redemption. He would have to resign and return to Kent.
But beyond his personal future—his life was over for the most part anyway—he considered
the world. He was as thoroughly convinced of the menace China presented and would continue to present. And he knew Norwalk shared his feelings. Too many of his colleagues in the corps agreed that China was a menace—too many to ignore. And yet he remembered the endless meetings with Meitner and then later with Girard and Yasuda, meetings fraught with indecision because no one would commit his government (or himself) to any definite course of action—and all this frustrating indecision while Russia and China began a war.
No, indecision would not help him any more now than it had then. He realized he’d still be sitting uselessly with Meitner, Girard and the others if he’d not become involved in the Keystone affair. He’d still be cabling London late-breaking events that he had no part in.
But this young man’s life was at stake. By acceding to Kornilevski’s method, he would share personal responsibility for that man’s death, for his murder, although publicly there would be no blame laid to him because if such a thing was done, it had to be done quietly, without the participation of either his or Kornilevski’s government. He knew death. He had seen it often in war; he himself had been responsible for many deaths. But the thought of killing someone like Hawkins to get what he wanted caused him to shudder inside. He made up his mind.
“I agree.”
Kornilevski breathed a heavy sigh of thanks and returned to his chair to pour another glass of port.
“Obviously,” he said when he was seated, “we cannot inform our governments of our decision. It would be possible for me to secure someone to commit the act from Moscow, but this would involve a personal trip for me back home. Once I was there it would be impossible for me to hide it from Lebedyev, although I think I could persuade Lebedyev to agree with us that what must be done, must be done. And time. Time is a factor.”
“No, I see your point. Time is invaluable. I could not return to England secretly either. And it would take too much time.”
“Do you know anyone?” Kornilevski asked.
Ellsworth looked at him with sharp distaste.
“I do not count many assassins among my normal circle of acquaintance, Ambassador,” he said coldly.
“I did not mean that to be an insult, Harold. You’ll forgive me if I am emotional. My country stands to lose a great deal if Thurston is elected.”
“As does mine, albeit perhaps somewhat more indirectly in the beginning.”
“What I mean to say is, do you know of anyone who could help us?”
“Yes. My nephew Vernon now works for Jack Houston St. Clair—he knows some men who turned into mercenaries when they left the Special Boat Service. It might be possible for me to arrange a contact somehow. I’m going to Miami tomorrow where I’ll see Vernon. But when I contact this person, I’m not sure what his reaction would be when I got in touch with him.”
“I see your point. If he was a professional, and he has to be a professional—he would be wary. He could, on the other hand, be expected to act quickly. But we must try something.”
“Yes, we have to try something.”
“What do you suggest, then?” asked Kornilevski.
“I suggest that I work through Vernon. He will not have any idea what we’re about and he won’t say anything to Jack.”
“How will we pay the man? He will be expensive.”
“I can divert some embassy funds, if necessary. You, no doubt, could do the same.”
“Yes, that would be the best way. It’s easily managed.”
“Is there any price you do not wish to exceed?”
“None.”
“Very good, then.”
Ellsworth paused.
“Is there something else, Lord Ellsworth?”
Ellsworth’s eyes landed on the decanter holding the ruby red liquid.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll have another glass of that fine port.”
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