The Folks at Fifty-Eight (31 page)

He pointed to the figure of Joe Jacobs standing in the background, and explained that Jacobs had been in Schmeling’s corner for the first fight. Joe Jacobs took his work seriously. He noticed that, after throwing a series of jabs, Louis dropped his left. The little Jewish trainer’s keen-eyed assessment of the flaw in Louis’ defence gave Schmeling the edge he needed. Until then, all the experts had claimed that Joe Louis was unbeatable.

When a jingoistic Carlisle asked about the second fight, the Lithuanian said Joe Jacobs hadn’t been in the corner for the second fight. He died before it took place. They brought in an inexperienced man, who didn’t find a weakness in Louis’ guard, or check the gloves as closely as Joe Jacobs always did. The world knows what happened after that.

Carlisle sat trying to fathom the message.

“I don’t follow.”

“You were talking about running for president. I was talking about power, real power.”

“More powerful than the President of The United States?”

Zalesie nodded. He said many in Washington thought politics was power, but he believed political power was merely an illusion. Incensed, Carlisle took issue.

“But he makes decisions that affect the entire world; decisions that change the wealth of nations, that start and end wars. As the sign on Harry Truman’s desk says. . . The buck stops here.”

“So what does that make him? A president or a patsy?”

Carlisle frowned as he listened to the insult. Zalesie smiled briefly.

“I, too, have a sign. If you look at the back it says, I’m from everywhere but Missouri.”

“He’s a great man, Conrad, and you’re a cynic.”

“No, Alan, I am a realist. If I were a cynic I would say that what that sign tells you, and what you see sitting on the other side of that sign, isn’t power or even a pretence of power. It is just another politician with more vanity than sense.”

Just as he had brow-beaten the sycophantic Howard Strecker in Frankfurt, Carlisle was now taking a spoonful of that same medicine. He had no choice but to defer to the Lithuanian. Zalesie was powerful, and clever. Carlisle desperately needed the information on Kube and Gehlen. He frowned, but said nothing as Zalesie clarified the point.

“No matter how senior or powerful a politician may seem, advisers control his actions and public opinion decides his thinking. He may appear as a giant, a colossus, a champion of the world, but if he doesn’t listen to advice and public opinion that illusion will quickly disappear.”

“And what would happen if the President didn’t follow your advice, if he refused to listen? He’d still be the President, and you’d be out of the advice business.”

“We call them rogue democrats, Alan. They’re like rogue State Department officials. . . They seldom achieve and they seldom last.”

The glare warned Carlisle to change the subject, but he was too angry.

“What you’re telling me is that you hold more power than the President of the United States? You’re telling me they do as you tell them, or else?”

Zalesie waved away both indignation and question.

“Whether I hold that power or not is an irrelevance, but I will say this: whatever power I do hold will last a good deal longer than the eight-year cycle of a punch-drunk president, with a cupboard full of skeletons and a season ticket to The White House.”

“They haven’t proposed that two-term limit yet.”

“I assure you they will. Roosevelt was a warning shot. We would all do well to heed it. And now, if you will excuse me, Alan, I do have guests to attend to.”

Carlisle stood up, and then pretended to remember.

“Yes, of course. Oh, just before you go, there was something. The European networks. We’re setting out plans to tie them into Occupied Territories when the time’s right. I need details of the key players; in confidence, of course.”

His unease had been obvious. He cursed himself. The Lithuanian appeared not to notice.

“Details?”

“Yes, the usual stuff: names, personnel and contact details, security measures in effect. It’s all red tape, but if something happened to you or any of the key players it could be disastrous. We’d look damn silly if we weren’t able to pick up the threads, especially after all this effort and expense. Perhaps you could let me have whatever you’ve got?”

“You do realize they’re running Reinhard Gehlen directly out of Camp King?”

“If you sanction it, I’ll contact them directly, but that still leaves the Czech connection.”

“I’ll think it over and get back to you. Now I must return to my guests.”

Angela Carlisle hissed at her husband while smiling across the room at Zalesie. Zalesie nodded and returned the smile. Theresa had excused herself earlier, saying she needed to organize something. She left Angela alone and squirming with embarrassment.

Carlisle turned to her.

“I’ve been talking to Zalesie,” he whispered. I think he’ll give us what we want.”

“I should hope so. This place is like a scene from ancient Rome. I’ve literally had to fight people off. I tried to move into another room and found a women having sex with three men. A crowd of people were watching. I think they were waiting in line. . . It was disgusting.”

“Well, as long as you didn’t join the queue.”

“Don’t be crude. They’ve treated me like a sex object since we arrived. It’s not only that. I know some of these people. I’ve seen them in Washington. Look, can’t we get out of here?”

“Of course not. It’ll look as though we only came so I could talk to Zalesie. You should have sat at the bar. It’s less obvious if you’re alone. Come on, we’ll wander over.”

“You’re not leaving me again?”

“No choice, I’m afraid. Theresa wants to introduce me to someone.”

She glanced across to where Theresa Zalesie stood talking to two women.

“Pimping for you now, is she?”

“Don’t be petulant. Look, we daren’t upset them. Zalesie’s already suspicious, and it’s essential we get these details. I don’t want to give him an excuse to say no, so be friendly.”

“What do you mean, when you say ‘friendly’?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Alan, I’m not a whore.”

“Do you want Mathew safe?”

“Of course.”

“Well then.”

“You bastard! I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. I’m your wife, for Christ’s sake.”

Still bickering, they made their way to the bar. She perched on a stool in the corner and glared at him as he turned to leave.

“It’s that Zalesie woman, isn’t it? She’s getting you out of the way, so. . . and you’re allowing it to happen. For all I know, you suggested it.”

There was no trace of apology in his answer.

“Well, it’s not as if you haven’t done it before.”

“I can’t believe you’re using me like this.”

Carlisle hissed back at her.

“You were happy for me to be a party to murder, but this is too sensitive for you, is it? Look, I’ve got to go, she’s waving at me. We’ll talk later.”

“Alan, please don’t leave me here, not so. . . Christ! Don’t I mean anything to you?”

She watched him saunter over to where Theresa Zalesie stood chatting with two dusky and attractive young women. She saw the girls smile obvious invitations, and heard Theresa say.

“Alan, I’d like you to meet Marisa and Christina. Don’t ask me which is which. They’ve come all the way up from Panama and insist on doing everything together.”

“Do they now?”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing them to their room, settle them in, pour them a drink; give them whatever they need? I’ve put them in the lake-view suite, in the north annex.”

Angela sat fuming, but then saw Theresa Zalesie look straight at her and heard her say,

“Don’t worry about that wife of yours. I’m sure we’ll find something to do.”

Angela Carlisle swallowed hard and looked away. She ordered a cognac and downed it in a single swallow. Then curiosity bettered poise and caused her to steal a second glance.

The knowing look was still there, imagining and suggesting, undressing and anticipating. She realised how vulnerable she now was and felt her stomach churn and her heart begin to thump. Moistened palms wiped anxious perspiration against the tautness of her skirt. Frantic fingers tugged at a hemline’s sudden inadequacy.

She ordered another cognac as her confidence continued to drain, shockingly aware that she was once again thoroughly aroused by thoughts of lesbianism and lust.

Suddenly the woman was beside her, determined to press an unscrupulous advantage, heightening arousal and confounding resolve as her eyes flashed and her fingers idly stroked.

“Are you feeling all right? For a second there you seemed a little faint.”

“No I’m fine; just warm. There’s no need for. . . I’ll be all right. Thanks anyway.”

“Well, I think we’d better get you some air. Come with me.”

“My purse and my bag. I have to. . .”

“I’ve got them. Now let’s get you that air.”

Insistent fingers tugged her from the stool. An assertive arm looped its authority around her waist. She tripped and staggered as her fashionably-heeled shoes reached the ground, but recovered and reluctantly made her way across the floor.

“Look, I’m fine. I just had too much to drink, but I’m fine now. I ought to get back.”

“Well, let’s get you some air first. Perhaps the balcony would be best.”

A commanding hand slipped from waist to buttocks. Governing and fondling, it guided her up and toward the balcony, but on reaching the galleried landing suddenly altered direction. Instead of the balcony’s revitalizing air and the cool of the night, it gripped a little tighter and shepherded her toward a room at the corridor’s end.

Once inside the room, she leaned against the nearest wall and watched in tacit compliance, seeing the untidiness of an oversized bedroom, with shoes and clothes strewn across the floor, and an ornate dressing-table covered in perfumes and cosmetics. Half-a-dozen glasses and some bottles of spirit sat on a trolley at the far end of the dressing-table. Her eyes wandered from there to where an unmade bed of ivory satin further increased her pulse rate.

Theresa Zalesie slouched to the trolley, picked up two glasses and reached for the bourbon.

“Not for me, thanks. I think I might already be a little tipsy.”

The fingers briefly hesitated before opening the bottle. They poured out two full measures, and then returned the bottle to the trolley without replacing the cap. Angela watched as dainty feet with painted toenails kicked off a pair of high-heeled shoes and then padded their way towards her. A jubilant predator moved closer and whispered into her ear.

“We both know why I brought you up here, and we both know you’re no more drunk than I am.”

Propped against the wall in fixated readiness, Angela spluttered a hollow denial, and allowed the gloating seductress to press the glass into her hand.

“I think you must have the wrong idea. I’m not like that. I have to get back to my husband. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong. . .”

She realised the obvious transparency of her lies and faltered into silence. Theresa Zalesie unpinned her hair and allowed the sheen to cascade, then leaned forward and whispered,

“Liar!”

“No, I’m not like that, I. . .”

“But that’s not true, is it, Mrs Carlisle?”

As she heard Zalesie’s voice, Angela’s imagination raced. She stuttered a refusal and shrank against the wall, her eyes flickering between the menace of Zalesie and the promise of his wife. He put a finger to his lips.

“Hush.”

To Angela, trapped and confused, that single syllable held more menace than a thousand threats. It sent waves of panic through her frame, and left her shaking with fear. She watched him pour a drink and raise the glass, then pause again.

“So, tell me, Angela, why are you here tonight? And why does Alan suddenly want so many security details? And what did he and my old friend Stanislav Paslov talk about in Frankfurt?”

She spluttered her answers.

“I don’t understand. I’m here, because Alan said it would be fun. I don’t know anything about security details, and I’ve never heard of Stanislav whatever his name is.”

Zalesie put down his glass and crossed the room. He took her by the arm and led her to the bed. She whimpered a refusal and shrank from him.

“No, please; please don’t.”

“Whatever do you think I’m going to do to you?”

She must have looked as terrified as she felt, because he gave an artificial laugh and offered a reassurance. “You are a highly attractive woman, Mrs Carlisle, but I have never yet felt the need to force myself on houseguests.”

She breathed a silent sigh. He smiled a comforting smile and returned to his drink, leaving her sitting on the bed, and trying to steady her nerves. When she risked another glance, she saw the smile had gone.

“I have seen the photograph, Angela; of you and those women, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. So why else did you come here tonight? What was so important?”

She found herself unable to summon an answer. He asked again.

“I can help you, you know. I can protect you from whatever it is you’re so terrified of, but you have to trust me and you have to tell me everything. Now, please, tell me.”

As she sat watching Zalesie watching her, Angela felt isolated and afraid and confused. She didn’t know what she should do, or how much she should say. She thought of Mathew in danger and felt the panic rise. Her son was in trouble. It was her fault, her responsibility. Suddenly the whole sordid story came gushing out.

She talked of Sarah Pearson and the Russian girl. She spoke of how the women had tricked and seduced her. She spoke of the photographs, how much she had paid, and how ashamed she had been. She spoke of Paslov’s meeting with Alan, and his demand for details of the Nazi spymasters. She spoke of her love and fear for Mathew, and how she had abused and alienated him. She said he had disappeared in Vienna, that Alan suspected Paslov and Beria. She blamed herself. The emotion overwhelmed her. She began to sob. Then, through the misery, she heard him say,