The Folks at Fifty-Eight (30 page)

“Oh, you mean the name of the building: Harold Pratt House. Yes, I suppose that may seem unfortunate to the uninitiated, but take a look around, Mr Hammond. . . study the décor and the furnishings, feel the luxury. Look at that panelling, look at the craftsmanship, see how detailed it is? One would have to be a philistine not to appreciate such beauty.”

“It’s impressive, but so what?”

“If I were not previously aware, I would find it hard to believe that we are now standing in a soundproof room, one of the most private and secure environments in the country.

“When someone in this room speaks, you cannot hear from the adjoining room. Yet those words will shortly echo in places as far apart as Pennsylvania Avenue and Downing Street.”

“And so, what are you telling me: that you control democratically-elected governments?”

“Influence, Mr Hammond, influence.”

Chambers was now being overtly supercilious. Hammond’s anger was rising.

“With all due respect, I don’t remember anyone voting for you, Mr Chambers, or even voting for anyone who sponsors you. You have no jurisdiction over me. I work for the State Department, and we answer directly to the President of The United States.”

The smile evaporated. Chambers suddenly looked bored.

“You’ll find that this organization is part of the State Department, and has been for several years. The answer to your question is no. Do have a good trip back to Washington.”

Chambers turned his back in a clear gesture of dismissal. Furious, Hammond moved to where Marcus Allum stood waiting to open the inner door.

“Thanks for taking the time, Marcus. It’s been an education.”

Beginning life during the war as the American Trading and Lithuanian Investment company, ATLI had rapidly become one of the world’s leading armament suppliers. Although happy to court the wholesale private market, the corporation focused on government supply, and this was where the already wealthy Zalesie substantially increased his fortune.

Whether the need was Italian pistols, Swiss mechanisms, British combustion engines, or American carbines, Conrad Zalesie and ATLI would guarantee both delivery and support. Many claimed, if anyone on either American continent became involved in a firefight, there was a good chance that ATLI and the wily Zalesie would have sourced and sanctioned the weapons and equipment used by both sides.

This well-documented success story was not without its critics, though. A Lithuanian exile profiting in the great American way of liberty and opportunity was acceptable to most and applauded by many, but a Lithuanian corporation was a different matter. Even the most insular of politicians knew that Lithuania lay behind the recently-drawn Iron Curtain, and that begged a question. Why was the American government investing its defence budget in a puppet state of the Soviet Union?

Fortunately for thousands of worldwide ATLI employees, the wily Conrad Zalesie was primarily a businessman and only secondly a proud Lithuanian descendent. He recognized the political xenophobia and commercial shenanigans as just that, and immediately changed the corporation’s registered title from Lithuanian to Libertarian. With essential cosmetic change effected, Zalesie watched the government contracts come rolling back in and all those sycophantic politicians return with caps held firmly between forefingers and thumbs.

But there was another more disturbing reason for Zalesie’s business success that bothered some and intrigued many. How had he ingratiated himself with so many politicians and bureaucrats in so short a period? And how had a newly-arrived Lithuanian exile secured so many confidential and profitable armaments contracts?

The answer lay partly in the weakness of those same politicians and bureaucrats, and partly in the deviousness of Zalesie.

Conrad Zalesie knew human nature. He understood political expedience, and knew how to manipulate the political animal. He believed that greed and ambition were both the driving force and Achilles’ heel of politicians. He also believed that a body acted on by a steady force suffers constant acceleration, and that this paradigm applied as much to human nature as the second law of Newton.

Zalesie held scandalous parties at his estate in Connecticut, to which he invited only the most beautiful, wealthy, and powerful. Behind locked doors, and protected by sophisticated security and heavily-armed guards, beautiful people encouraged the wealthy and powerful to relax and indulge. Nothing was too decadent, too depraved, or too expensive for Zalesie’s honoured guests. No individual beyond seduction, be they wife or whore, husband or gigolo. No substance frowned on, no demand refused, and no practice too offensive or degenerate.

It was Zalesie’s wife, Theresa, who hosted these ‘occasions’, as she called them. Theresa was a woman of striking looks and deviant inclination, with a voluptuous body that she made available to many, and a mind as dissolute as the most depraved of her party guests.

Once in the magnetic field of Conrad and Theresa Zalesie’s curious brand of immoral gravity, the impact and resulting damage to political careers were as bruising and unavoidable as unyielding ground to falling apple. The higher the branch, the greater the impact. The higher placed the individual, the greater the potential damage of disclosure. Unless of course, at some point before impact, a helping hand reached out to save either falling apple or plummeting career. Since their arrival in the United States, the voluptuous Theresa had shaken many a lofty branch, and the wily Conrad held out many a helping hand to catch many a falling apple.

Angela Carlisle studied the welcoming smile and wondered what it was about Conrad Zalesie that made him so successful. Why was he so revered by the clandestine power-brokers of Washington, and so resilient to the vagaries of Capitol Hill policy? Why was he so hypnotically attractive to so many beautiful and celebrated women? How did he come to be so enormously wealthy, and why was he so feared by so many of the people around him?

She studied the man behind the reputation. He wasn’t especially tall, standing around five feet nine in his stockinged feet, and neither was he especially imposing. The features were handsome and distinguished, the bearing poised to the point of elegance. The body was slim and well proportioned, but lacking muscular definition. The hands were slender, and the fingers long, but lacking the essential grace and descriptive movement that more usually accompanies an artistic bent or sensitive touch.

If she were to be even more pernickety critical, and Angela Carlisle often was, then perhaps the nose was a little too hooked and the mouth a little too thin. Whenever Zalesie contrived a laugh, he studied others’ reactions with eyes that didn’t share in the humour. Whenever he spoke, his voice was a little too weak and a little too shrill to be overtly seductive.

Nonetheless, and despite the negatives, there was a presence to Conrad Zalesie. The innate authority was clear to see, as was the self-confidence that came with wealth and power. The blue-grey eyes were clear enough and bright enough, and his short brown hair, prematurely greying at the temples, served to further the aristocratic distinction. Most striking of all, though, was Zalesie’s charisma, a charisma so powerful and so compelling it was almost tangible.

“Alan, you didn’t tell me you had such a beautiful wife! Shame on you! All these months and years we’ve worked together, and you never mentioned how stunningly beautiful she was. Well, you come with me, my dear. We’ll see if we can’t make up for all that wasted time.”

She allowed him to take her arm and guide her into the crowded ballroom, through the throng and toward a vacant settee. She sat down, feeling shocked and flustered as she saw his eyes blatantly scanning her body. She felt herself blush.

“Allow me to fetch you a drink, my dear. What will you have?”

He waved away a hovering waiter. She gathered her wits and remembered her breeding.

“A dry sherry would be fine, thank you.”

“He leaned forward to briefly pat and fondle her thigh. She gave an involuntary start. A gasp of shock escaped her lips. Zalesie merely smiled.

“I shall return immediately. Now you just sit there and look beautiful.”

Angela swallowed hard and sat open-mouthed. Zalesie strode to the bar. She watched him order the drinks and speak to a woman. When he returned, the woman followed.

“Angela, you must meet my wife. Since Alan told us you’d be accompanying him, she’s been so looking forward to meeting you.”

Angela smiled politely, and again found herself mesmerized as his eyes resumed their domination. Then a woman’s voice broke the spell.

“Well now, and who do we have here?”

Zalesie began the introduction.

“This is my wife, Theresa. Theresa, my dear, this is Alan’s wife, Angela. I do believe he’s been hiding her away from us.”

“I can see why.”

Theresa Zalesie was a good twenty years the junior of her charismatic husband, but the seductive syllables that oozed from her lips were just as suggestive, and the eyes that collected Angela’s own were even more intense. Angela Carlisle sat transfixed.

Theresa Zalesie was undeniably attractive: the complexion clear, the eyes hazel, the hair long and auburn, and pinned high. Red high-heeled shoes, supporting long slender legs, ensured she towered some way above her husband. A bright red velvet skirt, scandalously split to the stocking tops, matched the shoes. Ample breasts spilled beyond an outrageously-transparent blouse, flirting with both the laws of obscenity and every pair of eyes in the room.

She summoned the nearest waiter without diverting the gaze, addressed him by his first name and told him to fetch a bourbon and ice. The waiter hurried away. Angela broke the stare and looked despairingly around the room for her errant husband. Conrad Zalesie smiled.

“And now, as much as I would rather stay here and talk to you, I have to go and talk to that boring husband of yours.” He again leaned forward to pat and fondle her thigh. Angela saw his eyes flash as she gave another involuntary start and locked her knees together. He glanced at his wife. “Never mind, I’m sure Theresa will keep you entertained.”

He had delivered the apology with a smile, but the instruction to his wife had been unambiguous. She nodded, and studied the allotted task with appreciative eyes.

“Of course I will, Conrad. Nothing could please me more.”

Zalesie turned and walked away. Angela sipped politely at her sherry, and feigned a self-assurance that denied her current pulse rate.

Zalesie’s study was a large, luxuriously-appointed, room. It sat at the back of the main house, overlooking the grounds and the lake beyond. Zalesie ushered Carlisle in, then took his seat behind a large expanse of mahogany and leather.

“So what are you doing here, Alan? Not that you and your lovely wife aren’t welcome, of course, but it is only ten days since we last met. Nothing happened to concern us, I hope?”

Carlisle casually glanced around the study, and then lied.

“No, nothing special. It was something Marcus asked me to check. Said he’d heard rumours about you running for office; wanted to know if it was true.”

“What office?”

“Is there more than one?”

“And you flew all the way up from Washington to ask me that? Are there no working telephones at the State Department?”

“Well, it is confidential, but it wasn’t just that. Angela seemed in need of a little excitement. Thought I’d let her loose on Manhattan.”

Carlisle listened to his own words and found them hollow and implausible. Whatever Zalesie might have thought, he gave nothing away.

“I’m sure she’ll enjoy that, but as for me and the highest office? Doesn’t the Constitution have something to say about that?”

Carlisle shrugged.

“We farmed in your citizenship for the CFR, and we’ve amended the Constitution before. America always has been a nation of converging nationality. This wouldn’t be without precedent. You have the necessary connections, and you clearly have the wherewithal.”

His eyes flickered around the study’s opulence in an unnecessary effort to amplify the point. Zalesie frowned.

“Shackled, and placed under a microscope? Why would I ever allow such a thing?”

Carlisle was momentarily thrown.

“I don’t understand. Shackled? Shackled how?”

The Lithuanian pointed to a picture on the far wall. It was a signed photograph of a boxer, hanging among many other similarly-framed portraits of boxers, but positioned slightly higher.

“Do you know who that is?”

Carlisle squinted at the picture, unable to identify either face or signature from where he sat.

“No, not a boxing fan, I’m afraid.”

“That’s Max Schmeling, one of the great heavyweight champions.”

Carlisle sneered.

“You mean the guy Joe Louis almost killed?”

Zalesie smiled. He said Americans always talked about the second fight, when Louis won. In Europe they preferred to talk about the first, when Schmeling won.

When Carlisle said the second fight had been a walk-over, Zalesie’s smile didn’t waver.

“Some say Louis had weights in his gloves. Some say it was a freak punch that broke a bone in Schmeling’s vertebrae. I don’t believe that. I think Schmeling lost that fight before he stepped into the ring.”

Carlisle knew this was no idle chatter. He asked what that should tell him. Zalesie said the real difference between the fights had been a little Jewish trainer called Joe Jacobs. He laughed, loudly and artificially, and said he couldn’t recall another time in history when a Jew has held so much power without abusing it, then added that maybe there had been one.