Black Heart, page 22
But slowly, so subtly that he was never aware of it until the moment of her disappearance, he was being turned around. Lost within the web of disavowed feelings, he began to allow them a power over him he could not understand or control.
Physically she stirred him as no other woman had before or
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since. In entering her, his past life seemed to melt away from him into a cloudy pool. It was in those all too brief moments that he found he could release himself into her. He spoke about what he had done, what he had seen done. Some form of guilt at the joy with which he embraced the lawlessness of war surfaced and, in disgorging it, he was exorcised.
To be lost within himself was a new experience for him; it went beyond sex towards an approximation of love he had never before believed himself capable of.
All this came home to him when he returned from his final and most important mission into Cambodia. While he was making the first incision into the unknown fabric of his new life, while he was quite literally giving birth to the angka, she had left her flat in Ban Me Thuot.
No one saw her leave - he made certain of that in the ensuing days and nights after his return. But of one thing he was certain: she had not left on her own. Someone had taken her.
The possibilities were endless. She had told him over and over that there were no other men in her life. But there were nights when she couldn't see him, long stretches when he was away sweating in the jungles, wiping the blood of the Khmer Rouge offhis Bowie knife. And now the incident of their first meeting replayed itself in his mind like a defective tape that would not stop: the two Marines fighting over her. Had she, after all, been married? Or been sleeping with another of the Special Forces soldiers?
He would never know. In the waning days before he was flown back to the States for the last time, the stories he uncovered piled up in a bewildering heap: she had been a paid informant for the Viet Cong; she was actually full Khmer, ideologically tied to the rebels in Cambodia; she was a double agent working with the Communists, transmitting to them disinformation prepared by Special Forces Intelligence.
Those were bleak days, despite his mounting excitement at die beginning of the angka. In his mind, he tried to retrace every "Miniate conversation he had had with her. How many missions, now much of his private thoughts had he communicated to her? " was impossible for him to say. His love for her made the desire
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__v.all soft and unfocused until he found that k did not matter to him what she had been. She had been his; there was nothing as important as that.
And she was for him the last enigma left in the world.
The Museum of Modern Art was a mess when he arrived there. The sculpture garden was a morass of rock-laced earth and Caterpillar machinery. It was a discouraging sight to many folk, so the museum was much quieter than it normally would be in the afternoon. It was cool inside, the textured grey walls and white stone floors showing the colourful art at its best.
Senator Harlan Esterhaas was a dour-faced man with a thick shock of yellow-white hair, a beefy-cheeked face to go with his rather corpulent body and black-rimmed glasses with half lenses perched near the end of his nose. He was dressed in a dark threepiece suit despite the weather.
Those who did not know the senator all that well, invariably made the mistake of underestimating him. Because he refused to allow the rough edges country life had given him to be eroded by his work in Washington, he had often been considered an easy mark for one scheme or another.
Nothing could be further from the truth. He was canny, experienced in the oftentimes acrimonious senatorial infighting. Striding confidently up to the man now, Macomber vowed to give Esterhaas no room to manoeuvre.
'Senator,' he said, smiling cordially, 'it's good to see you again.' He shook Esterhaas' hand warmly. 'How are things up
on the Hill?'
'I don't mind telling you,' Esterhaas said in his wheezy drawl, 'that getting appropriations out of this Congress is like pulling teeth. Hell, it's gotten worse since we last spoke. We need to beef up our armaments, but even more we require new blood, like a champion stud to sire us a new approach to defence. The apathy on the Hill is, frankly, very scary; the sheep're taking their cue from the Chief Executive and you know what a goddamned
dovecote he is.'
'I'm particularly concerned with the situation in Egypt. Macomber said. They were walking slowly through the new,
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temporary gallery. Outside, through smoked glass windows they could see men in hard hats sweating as they worked brightsparking welding irons.
'We've been, too,' the Senator nodded. 'But I think we've got Mubarak in line now and, in any case, we're dispatching Roger DeWitt - who's having briefings now with the Secretary of State - tomorrow. I don't know whether you know him. He's called a military attache but he's much more. He's a tremendous negotiator and an even better intelligence gatherer.'
'It's not Mubarak, per se, I'm worried about,' Macomber said as they stopped to admire a primary-coloured Calder. 'It's all those secret sects trained in Russian-financed terrorist camps. The whole situation's terribly unstable.'
Esterhaas gave a wry smile. 'I see you stay up nights, too. Well, it'll all settle down now that De Witt's going in. He's our best man, really.'
'You've got security all mapped out, I assume.'
That's State's purview; I don't get involved in security.' They moved away from the Calder towards a soaring Brancusi sculpture. 'Anyway, the evidence for Russian involvement on the scale you indicate just isn't there at the moment.'
Macomber grunted. 'Maybe I should fly you into Southern Lebanon to see for yourself
The Senator laughed. 'Very amusing.'
Macomber turned towards him. 'I'm perfectly serious,' he said bluntly. 'I can arrange it within two hours. It's up to you.'
Esterhaas had gone ashen. 'What, infiltrate a PLO camp? We'd be shot to death.'
Macomber nodded. 'There's always that possibility.' The sudden deflation of the senator's confidence disgusted him. They were all alike, these politicians. It was so easy to make them back off and once having done that, they were yours.
'But I doubt very much it would happen. I wouldn't let it.' He flexed that calloused hand and Esterhaas' gaze was drawn to it, a snake enrapt by the mongoose. Macomber shrugged. 'My point is this. You refute my contention with reports compiled °y agencies to whom funding is far more important than the work they were created to do.
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'I back up my views with the real thing. You think the Russians' involvement in international terrorism is minor. If you don't take me up on my offer, you must believe me. What other choice do you have?'
The Senator stared at Macomber. 'You sure are confident,'
he said softly.
'I'm certain of my facts. Are you?'
Esterhaas looked away towards the bright fizzing arcs of the welders' torches. 'I thought I was sure until now. But the idea of actually going ...' He turned back to Macomber. 'I don't honestly think I'd be comfortable with that.'
'I want you to remember this moment, Harlan.' Macomber had moved subtly closer to him. 'In everything that follows I want you to remember. You had your chance to experience it for yourself. You chose not to. Well, from now on it will be my information you rely on.'
'I see.'
Macomber turned his head like an owl on scent. 'Does that offend some sensibility of yours? You'd do well to be honest
about it now.'
Esterhaas shook his head. 'Whatever sensibilities I was born with have been bred out of me by thirty-odd years in politics. There's no room for the thin-skinned.'
Only for the gutless, Macomber thought. This was what the system could not foretell in picking Esterhaas. If the going got rough, as it might at one point or another, Macomber had to be certain he would not cave in under the pressure.
They walked on. Macomber put his hands behind him and this simple gesture transformed him somewhat, giving him more or less a professorial air. 'A tragedy about Senator Burke,' he said in a conversational tone. 'It's terrible to be cut down so senselessly at such an age.'
'Don't play games with me,' Esterhaas said, abruptly angry. 'Roland called me the day before he was murdered. I know what he was about to announce. It stands to reason that he wasn't killed by some intruder as the police in Chicago have convinced themselves.' 'That could be true.'
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The Senator stopped walking. 'Listen, I don't cotton to those kinds of tactics and if you think you can scare me by what happened to Burke, you'd better think again. He was stupid enough to dither over his decision instead of going out and acting on it immediately. If he'd done that, he'd still be alive today.'
'If it helps you to believe that,' Macomber said easily, 'be my guest. But the fact is, there was no threat implied, Harlan. Not to you. I don't underestimate you for a moment; you can be as dangerous as you are powerful. I know that. That's why you were picked by me.' Macomber's voice had turned silky, soothing- 'I have nothing but respect for you, Senator.'
Esterhaas nodded. 'That's more like it. You know, I'm a pragmatist. Where this world of ours is concerned, I can see the handwriting on the wall real clear. And from where I sit, you've got the right attitude. This country's been sinking into the international sea for more than ten years now. Hell, I knew about it and I've done my best to fight it. But up to now it's been a losing battle 'cause there hasn't been nearly enough people in the right places who think the same way. Now I think we got a fighting chance. I admire you for givin' this country that chance.' He scratched at his jaw. 'Just so's you know not to cross me. If the saddle you give me to ride begins to chafe my behind, I got a right to change horses. That's how I always do business.'
'And I appreciate that, Harlan.' Macomber's tone had not changed. 'I understand the concerns that prompt you to make such a statement.' They moved on, past a Lictenstein which Macomber loathed. 'How's your family, Harlan?'
'Everyone's fine.' The senator had begun to relax, the last of the deal over with. 'Barbara's gone back to school to get her Ph.D.' He chuckled. 'Can you imagine? At her age.'
'It's never too late to learn,' Macomber said. 'And what about your beautiful daughter, Amy.'
'The light of my life?' Esterhaas smiled in happiness. 'She's top of her class in Stamford. My only complaint is that Barbara and I don't get to see her often enough, what with her being JU the way out in California.'
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Macomber halted them before his favourite Brancusi. The sinuous lines of the sculpture were breath takingly sensual. 'Brancusi is a certified genius, Harlan, don't you think?' And then continuing in precisely the same tone of voice. 'I have films
of Amy.'
'What?' Esterhaas thought that perhaps he had not heard
right. 'Did you say films?'
'Your daughter,' Macomber said, drawing it out, 'your baby, has a female lover. A radical involved in a splinter group of, shall we say, a decidedly revolutionary bent.'
'This is out '.' The Senator could not go on. He staggered a little, red-faced but when Macomber gripped him to steady his stance, he shook the hand off. 'I don't believe any of it.'
Macomber produced a colour snapshot, handed it over. 'It's taken from one of the frames.'
Esterhaas' hand trembled and he held the thing by its extreme edges as if he might be contaminated by it. 'Oh, God,' he moaned, looking down into the face of his fear. 'Oh, my God. Barbara will die if she ever finds out.' He was almost speaking
to himself.
'1 know that.' Macomber took the photo from the Senator's nerveless fingers and, walking over to a sand-filled standing ash tray, quickly burned the snapshot with the flame from a gold I lighter. He came back to where Esterhaas stood. 'And she'll never know, the world will never know. Not from me, at least.
1 want to make that very clear, Harlan. Not from me.'
'I think I ...' The senator seemed to be coming slowly out of a trance. 'I understand.' Animation returned to his face. 'You're a despicable sonovabitch.'
'That's very funny, Harlan,' Macomber said as they turned to leave, 'coming from you.'
A stifling humid twilight was descending over Alexandna, steeping Washington and its environs in wet heat.
Gottschalk, still in his dark blue suit trousers, had nevertheless divested himself of his jacket, waistcoat and striped tie. They by lankly over the back of the lawn chair like discarded flags. "e picked a tall iced drink off a pebble-glass-topped wrought-iron
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table, rolled the beaded side of the glass against his cheek. He sighed.
At his feet, Kathleen lay stretched out on the immaculately groomed lawn, hands pillowing her head. She wore a loosefitting sleeveless top in a green, brown and grey jungle print not unlike the camouflage jackets Gottschalk had seen the grunts wearing into the dangerous jungles of Southeast Asia. She wore forest-green shorts that exposed a crescent slice of the bottom of her buttocks. She had kicked offher silver European sandals, had crossed one ankle over the other.
Gottschalk had come here for solace, a haven from the incredible pressure of the nomination race. He needed a respite from the seven-day-a-week grind. He had been in every state in the Union at least three times during the past eight months for the primaries as well as spending time with each group of delegates to the forthcoming convention in Dallas. It was an exhausting as well as an exhilarating way of life. He found reserves inside himself he had not been certain would be there. But every so often he needed an escape from everything: pressure, politics, the public face he had so painstakingly fashioned, the strategy planning, the in-fighting, the endless rounds of interviews, addresses, speeches, off-the-cuff remarks, backslapping, handgrabbing and cigar-chomping. Even Roberta
Kathleen, who provided all this and more for him, was staring over her head at the verdant screen of foilage that backed the bamboo fence that screened the house from the sleepy street. She felt safe here; safe and secure. But even more, she loved the house itself because it was a symbol to her. It was like an arrow pointing her way upward.
She stared at it now. The front had a double stairway guarded by filigree wrought-iron banisters that collapsed in on themselves at an intermediate landing placed directly in front and just below the wide front door. Above the stone and deep red brick fejade was a small semicircular balcony of worked limestone, °pen along its curving side as carved double serpents rose, waking , to confront each other in an endless aggression, ton^es exposed.
It was a fabulous place but Kathleen did not count herself
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lucky to be living in it. She knew she earned it every ti«ie Gottschalk came over. If she had dug deep enough she might have come to the ultimate conclusion that she did not enjoy being tied to a leash, at his beck and call. However, even then she would not have found the idea demeaning. It was merely a means to an end, and not an utterly distasteful one, either. She loved her own body, revelled in its sexuality. She had fev inhibitions and, in the face of her ambitions, even those disappeared.
Long ago, she had given her heart to a more demanding lover than any one man could ever be. Whatever her body was put through was all right with her; her heart, the inner core of her, remained sacrosanct. In sex, nothing could be asked of her that she could not do. It made no difference to her except that some acts were pleasurable and others not.
Gottschalk was not a pig as some of her former lovers in earlier less prosperous days had been. He was, in his own selfinvolved way, good to her. But she was certain that he did not fully understand the nature of his involvement with her. She might be similar to a pinball machine he went to in order to forget himself for a time and unwind.
Certainly he was ignorant of the overall picture. This did not disturb her particularly. In fact, it was just the way she wanted it at the moment. His time of revelation would come but only when she chose to raise it in front of his eyes. She smiled slightly at the secret thought. So close to him and thinking such evil thoughts. It gave her a warm, secure glow.
Gottschalk stretched. He had finished his drink. He wiped at his sweating forehead. There were damp crescents darkening his shirt under the arms. 'Christ,' he said, 'you've got to be a masochist to live here during the summer.'
Fluorescent blue streaks coated the dome of the sky high up, reflections of a sun already dropped below the skyline of Washington.
'Well, I expect I can stand it another couple of years.' He laughed, a sound deep down in his throat. 'After that, I'll "^ spending weekends at Camp David.'
God, but he was confident. Kathleen knew him well enoug
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to feel that this unshakable certainty could not be wholly his own. Where was it coming from then? It was a question she had been trying to decipher for months now. It was a secret she knew she must unearth.
At that moment, he rose. 'I'm going to work out for a bit,' he said, looking down at her. She was sapphire and amethyst in the darkling shadows of the rustling trees.
She began to lift her head and shoulders off the grass; her hair was like a black cap. 'I'll come in with you.'
His brow creased. 'No, don't bother, I'd rather be alone.' His head swung around and he gave her a vague smile almost as an afterthought. 'Anyway, you look like you're enjoying the evening too much.'
He began to step over her and, looking up, she had the odd prickling sensation that it had hesitated when it got to the centre of her body so that its cool shadow rested across her like the palm of a powerful hand. Then it had moved on and he had stepped across her.
She watched him until the door closed behind him. Then she closed her eyes, counted to sixty slowly. She got up and without a sound went across the lawn. She put her ear to the door, listened for sound or vibration. Hearing none, she turned the knob and when it reached its limit, pushed the door open.
