The Envoy (2 page)

The men’s belongings were quickly dealt with. The most
valuable
thing was Fitzwilliam’s signet ring – there was also a lot of cash. Kit stood by while the gendarme officer counted out every note and coin. When it was all finished, Kit signed his name under the Englishman’s as a witness.

Kathleen’s belongings were going to take a lot more time. The gendarme began with the most valuable items: a number of
necklaces
and heirloom brooches that were on loan from her dead husband’s family. It didn’t seem right to Kit that she should have taken them to glam up for a weekend with a married man on the French Riviera.

When the jewels were all inventoried and signed for, the
gendarme
began on the clothing – and there was a lot of it. Kit’s brief memory of Kathleen had slotted her as a wholesome ‘skirt and sweater girl’. She reminded him of the Mother Seton girls with their white bobby socks and saddle shoes kicking through mounds of autumn leaves on North Charles Street. But the
contents
of her suitcase suggested that ‘skirt and sweater’ was no longer her image. The poor gendarme was aware of the
solemnity
of the occasion – and tried not to smile as he waded his way through silken mounds of negligees, brassieres, stockings and knickers. There were also camisoles embroidered with her initials, KKH, and a pair of black lacy suspender belts. Kit heard a door open as he signed another inventory, but didn’t turn around. The remaining items were even more intimate: a douche and a
contraceptive
diaphragm. These weren’t the toilet items of a
fresh-faced
convent girl.

The voice behind Kit spoke with a strong Boston twang. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Kit handed the diaphragm back to the gendarme as he turned to face the man asking the question. He recognised Ambassador Joseph Kennedy at once. Kit knew, instinctively, that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time – and that nothing he could say or do was going to make any difference. ‘Good afternoon, sir, my name’s Kit Fournier, I’m the US consul in Nice.’

‘I didn’t ask who you were – I asked what you think you’re doing?’

‘I am very sorry, Ambassador Kennedy, to have to inform you …’

‘You don’t inform me of anything, young man. Where’s my daughter?’

Kit pointed across the room to the coffin. For the first time, he became aware of the smell of chrysanthemums. The funereal flowers seemed suddenly to flood the room. ‘She’s there, sir, next to the wall.’

Kennedy walked over to the coffin, glanced quickly down at his daughter. Then he half-turned and looked at Kit. ‘Why are you still here? Get the hell out and don’t come back.’

A week later Kit was sitting in the office of Jimmy Patterson, the Deputy Chief of Mission at the Paris embassy. Patterson leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘I feel sorry for you, Kit. He’s not an easy man to deal with – and, poor you, you were only carrying out your consular duties as survivor assistance officer.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I can understand how Kennedy must have felt.’

‘He’s an almighty powerful man, Kit, and men like that are even more dangerous when they’re grieving. First of all, let me give you some instructions. One, don’t ever, ever mention what you saw and heard in Privas on 14 May. Two, Kathleen Kennedy Hartington was not involved with Peter Earl Fitzwilliam who was, of course, a happily married man. Ambassador Kennedy’s
daughter
was just a friend of the family and, after a chance encounter with Lord Fitzwilliam in London, was offered a seat on a
chartered
plane to the south of France to meet her father. That’s the line, got it?’

‘Got it.’

‘Now, Kit, what are we going to do with you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think that, in your own interest, a little career change might be in order.’

‘Does Kennedy want me kicked out of the diplomatic corps?’

‘Not quite, but it might be an idea to lie doggo for a while.’

‘Long unpaid leave?’

‘No, Kit, you can still be a diplomat, but I think you need to add another string to your bow.’

‘Oh, I know, one of those God-awful courses learning some obscure language that no one can pick up after the age of five.’

‘You are a good linguist, but that’s not what I had in mind.’ Patterson looked closely at Kit. ‘You were in the OSS at the end of the war.’

‘Yeah, but I wasn’t any good at that cloak and dagger stuff – I was too young and naive. The only reason I ended up in the unit was because my dad pulled strings.’

‘By the way, how is your dad?’

Kit knew that Patterson’s question had overtones. His father had retired from the army a few months after the war ended – and there were rumours that he had ‘gone a bit funny’. He spent a lot of time trying to organise medical help for atomic bomb
radiation
victims in Japan. ‘Dad’s fine,’ said Kit.

Patterson could see that he had touched a raw nerve and returned to Kit’s career prospects. ‘You know, Kit, there has never been a clear line between diplomacy and intelligence gathering. To a certain extent every envoy is a spy, and …’

‘And what?’

‘And I think, Kit, that if you’re not prepared to get your hands dirty, you’re not going to survive in this business.’

‘Ergo?’

‘Ergo, take my advice. Listen, Kit, your old outfit, the OSS never disappeared; they’re just operating under a different name – and recruiting like mad. With your experience and background you’d be perfect.’

Kit realised that he wasn’t being offered a choice. ‘Would it mean that my career as a diplomat is over?’

‘No, far from it, you’ll still be an accredited diplomat carrying a black passport – only your post will be called “cover”– “
diplomatic
cover”. Who knows, you might even get two pay cheques.’

Kit smiled. ‘And will it keep Kennedy and his pals on the Seventh Floor off my back?’

‘That’s for sure.’

The Agency’s next training intake was scheduled for September. Kit spent several weeks of accumulated leave on a walking tour in the south of France. He returned to Paris at the end of August so he could say goodbye to various friends before catching a boat train to Le Havre, from where he had booked a liner berth to New York. On his last night in Paris, Kit ran into Porfirio Rubirosa at Abélard’s – not one of Rubi’s usual hangouts. Kit had first met Rubirosa in Santo Domingo where his father had been US
military
attaché. Kit was only eleven at the time and Rubi, then a
captain
in the Dominican army, had become a family friend. At the time Rubirosa was married to President Trujillo’s daughter – and had very little to do. He treated Kit like a little brother,
teaching
him to ride and shoot. Rubi’s excursions with young Kit were partly genuine kindness, but also gave him a cover to visit
various
ladies. Kit spent a lot of time leading Rubi’s rider-less horse around in circles.

The Dominican idyll came to an end in 1937 when Kit’s father confronted Trujillo directly about the massacre of Haitian migrants by armed Dominican vigilantes. His father was sure the army was involved – up to twenty thousand Haitians had been killed. There was a grotesque test to determine who was Haitian. A gunman held up a piece of parsley in front of a suspect. To a French-speaking Haitian, who knew it as ‘
persil
’, the Spanish equivalent, ‘
perejil
’, was unpronounceable. Rubirosa, to his credit, was not in any way involved for at the time he had been an undersecretary at the Dominican legation in Berlin, where he supplemented his salary by selling visas and passports to Jews. Meanwhile in Santo Domingo, Kit’s father was relieved of his post and sent back to Washington. It wasn’t the first time or last time that conscience would damage his career.

Kit wasn’t only surprised to see Rubirosa at Abélard’s; he was surprised to see him in Paris at all. ‘I thought,’ said Kit, ‘you were Dominican ambassador to Argentina.’

‘Argentina, the polo is fantastic – the best in the world. But the peasants play this game called
pato
, where you ride a pony bareback and chase live ducks that you have to catch and kill with your bare hands. It’s very dangerous, especially for the ducks.’

‘But, Rubi, why are you not there? What brings you to Paris?’

‘Things haven’t been too good with Doris …’

‘What a pity,’ said Kit. Doris Duke, Rubirosa’s third wife, was reputedly the third richest woman in the world.

‘… and, to be honest, I don’t think Trujillo was very happy with the way I was doing my job in Buenos Aires. What about you, Kit? When are you going to become an ambassador?’

‘I’m not. I’m sailing back to the States tomorrow.’

‘From Le Havre?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Let me give you a lift in the new Ferrari.’

The next morning Rubi really opened her up on the long straight on the
route nationale
between Pontoise and Rouen. The Ferrari was a road car, but a real racing machine too. There were no
luxuries
, the seats were canvas instead of leather. Everything
nonessential
was stripped out. Rubi was capable of purity too.

Windblown, they stopped for a simple lunch in Rouen of foie gras and red wine. When Rubirosa got up to have a pee, Kit
followed
him to the
pissoir
– he had to see if it was true. And he might never have another opportunity to see the famous ‘Ding Dong Daddy from Santo Domingo’.

It was a fine sunny day and the
pissoir
was in an open yard at the back of the cafe. It was, thought Kit, one of the nicest things about France – the way you could have a pee in the open air and watch the world go by. He tried not to make it obvious that he was leaning over to have a look. He even thought of making small talk about the route or the weather to try to prove he wasn’t really looking. But when Kit actually saw it, he was stunned speechless – it really
was
almost a foot long. But the impressive thing was its girth; it was as thick as a man’s wrist.

Despite his dissimulation, Porfirio saw that Kit had stolen a look at his cock. Rubirosa began in English. ‘You know there’s an operation for these things. It’s called, reduction phalloplasty. It certainly would make playing polo and driving fast cars a lot more comfortable. Porfirio did up his flies and then pinched Kit’s cheek with his thumb and forefinger. ‘But boy, I don’t think your rich
gringas
would still want to sleep with me.’