Bennett, a Deputy Director of the FBI, arrived at exactly six p.m. He was an old friend and a precise one, tall and angular, and with a wry humorous look in his eyes. He carried a briefcase.
Without being asked the Senator poured him a dry Martini. They sat down in front of the mock Tudor fireplace, with its mock coal flames.
“So tell, Curtis,” the Senator said.
Bennett took a sip of his drink and sucked his lips in appreciation, then picked up his briefcase and took out a folder.
“The prints from the glass were those of Creasy, the mercenary. The dead mercenary, Senator.”
He tapped the file.
“In here I have a faxed copy of the Death Certificate, issued by a very eminent professor named Giovanni Satta. I spoke to Professor Satta by phone this afternoon at the Cardarelli Hospital in Naples, Italy. He confirms the Death Certificate unreservedly. He personally attended the patient who died from terrible wounds received during a shoot-out in Palermo, Sicily, with a Mafia family several years ago.” He slid a glance at the Senator and said, “Jim, eminent doctors are not given to telling lies.”
The Senator shrugged. Bennett looked down at the paper in front of him and said, “So if this guy died five years ago, how come his prints are all over a glass which comes from a set that I gave you and Harriot for Christmas two years ago…and our guys at the lab tell me that they are recent prints…like within two weeks. What’s going on, Jim?”
The Senator held up a hand. “Hold your water, Curtis. What about the finger?”
Bennett’s smile was brief. He tapped the file.
“First of all, the guys at the lab tell me that it was cut off a living man…”
“Whose finger is it?”
The FBI man lifted a page from a file.
“A guy called Joseph J. Rawlings, American citizen, born in Idaho, aged fifty-one. Been messing around mercenary circles for years, in Europe and Africa. Basically a con man, wanted in this country on three serious charges of felony by deception. Whereabouts unknown.”
He closed the file, dropped it back into the briefcase.
He picked up his Martini and took a large gulp, then gazed steadily at the Senator and asked again, “So what’s going on, Jim?”
The Senator stood up, his back to the mock flames. He looked down at his friend.
“Don’t ask, Curtis. Not yet. In time I’ll tell you whatever I know.”
The FBI man sighed, reached down and tapped the briefcase.
“Jim, I gave you all this stuff because of who you are, and because we’re friends. I even approved it with the Director, which was a bit of a gamble, but he went along with it…but Jim, he’s asking questions what do I tell him?”
The Senator smiled. “Tell the SOB that I appreciate it. Tell him again when the FBI budget vote comes up in committee.”
Now Bennett smiled. “OK, but can’t you tell me anything on a personal basis?”
The Senator shook his head.
“Be patient with me, Curtis, I’ll tell you when I can.”
Bennett also stood and handed him the empty glass.
“Then at least give me another Martini. The two things you do best in life, Jim, are make Martinis and keep your mouth shut.”
The Senator grinned. As he mixed the Martini and a Chivas and water for himself, Bennett asked him, “It’s to do with Harriot, isn’t it?”
The Senator looked at him but said nothing.
Bennett sighed. “Jim, I know how much you loved her. Love is a word that cannot even express what you felt. I know George Bush made a public statement that when we know for sure who did it, the United States of America will bring them to justice. We also know that that is rhetoric. Whoever planted that bomb, and we’re getting close to finding out, will almost certainly be holding American hostages in the Lebanon. So bringing them to justice is gonna be near impossible.”
The Senator handed the glass to Bennett and he said nothing, just sipped at his whisky.
Bennett sighed again. “Jim, I have to guess. I have to make
Without being asked the Senator poured him a dry Martini. They sat down in front of the mock Tudor fireplace, with its mock coal flames.
“So tell, Curtis,” the Senator said.
Bennett took a sip of his drink and sucked his lips in appreciation, then picked up his briefcase and took out a folder.
“The prints from the glass were those of Creasy, the mercenary. The dead mercenary, Senator.”
He tapped the file.
“In here I have a faxed copy of the Death Certificate, issued by a very eminent professor named Giovanni Satta. I spoke to Professor Satta by phone this afternoon at the Cardarelli Hospital in Naples, Italy. He confirms the Death Certificate unreservedly. He personally attended the patient who died from terrible wounds received during a shoot-out in Palermo, Sicily, with a Mafia family several years ago.” He slid a glance at the Senator and said, “Jim, eminent doctors are not given to telling lies.”
The Senator shrugged. Bennett looked down at the paper in front of him and said, “So if this guy died five years ago, how come his prints are all over a glass which comes from a set that I gave you and Harriot for Christmas two years ago…and our guys at the lab tell me that they are recent prints…like within two weeks. What’s going on, Jim?”
The Senator held up a hand. “Hold your water, Curtis. What about the finger?”
Bennett’s smile was brief. He tapped the file.
“First of all, the guys at the lab tell me that it was cut off a living man…”
“Whose finger is it?”
The FBI man lifted a page from a file.
“A guy called Joseph J. Rawlings, American citizen, born in Idaho, aged fifty-one. Been messing around mercenary circles for years, in Europe and Africa. Basically a con man, wanted in this country on three serious charges of felony by deception. Whereabouts unknown.”
He closed the file, dropped it back into the briefcase.
He picked up his Martini and took a large gulp, then gazed steadily at the Senator and asked again, “So what’s going on, Jim?”
The Senator stood up, his back to the mock flames. He looked down at his friend.
“Don’t ask, Curtis. Not yet. In time I’ll tell you whatever I know.”
The FBI man sighed, reached down and tapped the briefcase.
“Jim, I gave you all this stuff because of who you are, and because we’re friends. I even approved it with the Director, which was a bit of a gamble, but he went along with it…but Jim, he’s asking questions what do I tell him?”
The Senator smiled. “Tell the SOB that I appreciate it. Tell him again when the FBI budget vote comes up in committee.”
Now Bennett smiled. “OK, but can’t you tell me anything on a personal basis?”
The Senator shook his head.
“Be patient with me, Curtis, I’ll tell you when I can.”
Bennett also stood and handed him the empty glass.
“Then at least give me another Martini. The two things you do best in life, Jim, are make Martinis and keep your mouth shut.”
The Senator grinned. As he mixed the Martini and a Chivas and water for himself, Bennett asked him, “It’s to do with Harriot, isn’t it?”
The Senator looked at him but said nothing.
Bennett sighed. “Jim, I know how much you loved her. Love is a word that cannot even express what you felt. I know George Bush made a public statement that when we know for sure who did it, the United States of America will bring them to justice. We also know that that is rhetoric. Whoever planted that bomb, and we’re getting close to finding out, will almost certainly be holding American hostages in the Lebanon. So bringing them to justice is gonna be near impossible.”
The Senator handed the glass to Bennett and he said nothing, just sipped at his whisky.
Bennett sighed again. “Jim, I have to guess. I have to make
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