The Assassin (16 page)

Clever men abounded; he could lay claim to genius. Huntley Cameron was clever, clever enough to see the catastrophic implications of a President like John Jackson. Ruthless enough to seize on King's vague hinting and agree to finance his removal. Removal was King's word; he liked to act discreetly, the intellectual who talked about a killing with becoming vagueness. Huntley Cameron called it murder, and without a qualm of conscience. And so the brilliant gamble which had its origins in the Politburo began to take its shape in the transported German castle, under the subtle auspices of Eddi King. He had to admire Cameron for his judgement; it exactly agreed with that of the political experts in the Soviet Union. If John Jackson became President, America would erupt into civil war withing two years. The student riots and racial outbreaks already disturbing the country would look like a children's pillow fight compared with the chaos and bloodshed which would result from his policies. And all that stood in Jackson's way was Patrick Casey, tough, dedicated, the liberal Democratic candidate. As Druet had said that evening in the Paris brothel, his advent to power could put back the advance of communism for fifty years. That was why Cameron had backed Casey, even to the extent of having Jackson murdered, rather than let him run.

And it was why it was essential in Soviet interests that Jackson should not only run but win. King went to the bedroom window and looked out. The grounds extended as far as he could see; there was a splendid oak which gave him particular pleasure. It stood against the sky, sturdy and majestic in its mantle of green leaves, until the wind stripped it and it stood bare and black branched, as it was now. King thought suddenly that he would never see that tree again after the weekend. It would have been obvious to assassinate Casey, following the bloodstained path beaten by the killers of Jack and Robert Kennedy. Obvious and stupid. If Casey were killed, whoever the Democrats put forward would be elected on a wave of hysterical guilt. It would not be Casey who would die. The killer brought in from Beirut would gun down another national hero, the one man who had not come out in support of Casey, the champion of the coloureds and the poor, the people's Cardinal, Martino Regazzi. He would die on March 17th, watched by millions of Americans on television.

King stepped back from the window and lit a cigarette; with a movement he pulled the long curtain a little forward, hiding the beautiful old tree.

Martino Regazzi's remark about a man trying to save his soul after the first twenty million had gone round the United States. He had stayed neutral in the election campaign so far, refusing to be drawn out on behalf of the Liberal Catholic candidate. He carried the votes of millions, irrespective of their creed. It had never been intended to let the assassin get out of the cathedral alive. King had made arrangements long before Huntley Cameron suggested it. Keller would be found dead, with just enough evidence planted on his body to lead to the first of the clues King had laid so carefully against Cameron. Beginning with Elizabeth his niece, who had brought the man into the States, and by some unexpected chance involved herself and her uncle deeper still by keeping the murderer in her apartment.

That was the scorpion sting which would disable Patrick Casey and remove him from the campaign as effectively as any bullet. His most powerful sponsor would be exposed as the man behind Regazzi's murder. Who could prove that Casey hadn't suspected, or even participated in, the killing of the one man in America powerful enough to deprive him of the Presidency—if he did as many expected, and backed the Republicans at the last minute.

The death of Martino Regazzi would convulse America and horrify the Western world. The public association of Patrick Casey with the man responsible for his murder would bury Casey's political career in the Cardinal's grave. And nobody would try to blame the communists this time.

With Casey removed, a nation beset by scandal and despair would sweep John Jackson into the White House.

This was the last weekend King would stay at Freemont; the last time he would sleep in this particular room, which had always been allotted to him over the years. It was also the end of his long fifteen years of exile. At last he would be able to go home. He had bought that magnificent
bureau plat
for his new flat in Moscow. He stubbed out his cigarette in a metal ashtray, the only concession to utility in that fantastic bedroom, equipped for a sixteenth-century Venetian prince, and went down to join Huntley Cameron and his niece.

It seemed to Elizabeth that King was looking at her more intently than he usually did. There was a query in his eyes that she had never seen before. She kissed her uncle, shook hands with King, and tried to behave normally.

‘You've done something to yourself,' King said suddenly. ‘Hasn't she, Huntley? You've changed your hair—that's what it is.'

He laughed and Elizabeth joined in; the tension in her eased. There was nothing sinister in his examination of her; he was just a man looking at a women who had altered her style. For the first few minutes she had felt as if she had the name ‘Leary' branded on her forehead.

‘It sure suits you, honey.' That was Dallas making her contribution, saying something nice as always.

‘Let's go and sit in the conservatory; I've got a new species I want to take a look at.' Huntley led the way, followed by Elizabeth, King and Dallas at the rear. She heard the woman making conversation, saying what she hoped were the right things. Elizabeth supposed it was nerves that made her hypersensitive to a situation she had taken for granted before. The ignominy of Dallas Jay's position made her feel really angry with her uncle. No one had the right to suppress another human being's personality and distort it as he had done. And he was never going to marry the poor girl. Everyone knew that except Dallas. All Huntley's wives had been socialites. He was a monumental snob about marriage. The conservatory was Huntley Cameron's favourite place of retreat; he enjoyed pointing out that old men needed heat so that he might be contradicted. It was incredibly warm; it was like stepping into the tropics from the inside of the castle. It ran for sixty feet down one side, and it was fitted out with a wide recess with comfortable lounging chairs, tables and a bar. Cacti and creepers decorated this part; Huntley protected his rare orchids and lilies from changes in atmosphere and cigarette smoke by keeping them at the far end. A manservant appeared as soon as they sat down. He brought champagne for Dallas and Elizabeth, a whisky for King and a personal decanter for Huntley.

‘It's good to see you,' Huntley said to her. He thought she looked prettier than usual. King was right; the hair falling naturally to her shoulders made her look younger. And she seemed thinner, more ethereal. And she was distinctly on edge about something. He glanced over at Eddi King, and there was a hostility in the look which would have surprised the other man. He knew King was attracted by his niece, and because she was his niece, Huntley didn't blame him. But though he could look, he mustn't be allowed to touch. He might be Huntley's friend, but he wasn't in the league that could get ideas about Elizabeth Cameron. When she married, and he wished she'd hurry up, it wouldn't be a middle-class Easterner old enough to be her father.

‘I wondered when you were going to call or come down,' he said. ‘I missed you. Dallas here was away, browning her fanny in Florida. I was lonely.'

‘I'm sorry, Uncle,' Elizabeth said. ‘I meant to call, but I didn't get round to it.'

‘Poor sweetie,' Dallas said. She got up and came to the back of Cameron's chair, putting her arms round him. ‘All alone without us. We're all here, now, honey, and I won't ever go away again if you don't want me to.'

‘Finish your drink,' Huntley said. She let go of him and went back to her chair. Elizabeth turned a little away from her uncle.

‘Next time you go to Florida,' she said, ‘let me know, Dallas, and I'll come with you. It doesn't do any harm, uncle Huntley, to be left to yourself now and again!'

‘Let's go and look at the orchids,' King suggested. He sensed that uncle and niece were moving towards a row. He had never seen Elizabeth in such an edgy mood. Unknowing, he used the same word to describe her as Huntley had done. Edgy, sensitive, ready to flare up.

She got up and together they moved down the long glass-walled room; the scent of the tropical plants increased as they went deeper into the hottest part of the growing area. Huge multicoloured flowers climbed over their heads; the banks of lilies exuded their clinging, fetid scent until suddenly Elizabeth stopped. The damp heat circulated round them, moist and thick, opening the pores of the skin.

‘Let's go back, Eddi. I can't stand the smell of this place.'

‘Wait just a moment,' King said. They were close together, the creeping plants made a roof over their heads. He was suddenly aroused by her. Perhaps it was the heat, or the sense of isolation, falsely created; perhaps it was something about Elizabeth herself which had never been there before, but he could have taken hold of her and pulled her down among the rioting leaves. He didn't move; he just said quietly, ‘Tell me about the man. I couldn't talk on the phone for long that night. Was everything really all right? He didn't give any trouble?'

‘I hardly saw him,' Elizabeth said. ‘He spent all day sleeping or watching the TV. He might just as well not have been there.'

‘I was worried,' King said. ‘I wouldn't have landed you with keeping him for a couple of hours—I could have cut my throat when you told me what had happened. I hope you're not angry with me, are you?'

‘Of course not.' She tried to say it lightly. ‘You couldn't help it. And he wasn't any trouble. I told you, I hardly saw him. He just kept to himself all the time.'

This was what King had been telling himself ever since he found that Keller was still with her. He hadn't talked to her; he was a professional and he knew the rules. He showed his relief when he smiled at her, and then he came to the second most important point he had to make while there was time.

‘Elizabeth, there's something I want you to promise me. Something very important.'

‘What is it?' She put out one hand and played with the deep yellow petals of a South American orchid; Huntley would have forbidden her the house if he had seen her twisting the delicate flesh of the flower until it bruised. Keep calm, anything to keep calm and hide the fear which was growing in her, being alone with this man, sensing that apart from what he was saying he was looking at her with desire.

‘What do you want me to promise, Eddi?'

‘Not to mention that you were involved in any way with bringing this man into the States,' King said. ‘I asked you to help because I didn't think I could do it without you. I never told Huntley you had any part in it. If he found out I'd involved you even by accident he'd break me. And you know him, Elizabeth, he'd do just that.'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I do know him. He's very powerful, and he's ruthless. I think he would destroy you, Eddi, if you got on the wrong side of him. My mother used to say it was dangerous enough being his friend in case he turned into an enemy. All right, if I promise you not to let him know, you've got to tell me something.'

‘Go ahead,' King said. He was prepared for the question. He was always prepared.

‘Who is this man and what's he doing here?'

‘He's going to be a witness,' King said. ‘A witness in one of the biggest exposés your uncle's ever launched against the gangster element in the States. That's why he had to be brought in the way he was; protected by you, so the people who might be looking for him would be off guard. That's why he had to stay hidden, and thank God you hid him. At this moment his life isn't worth a dry cent if they know he's here and who's behind it.'

‘You mean Uncle's gunning for the Mafia again?'

He nodded. ‘That's it. Dope, prostitution, gambling, rackets. And government corruption. I'm sorry, my dear, I should have warned you how hot this thing was, but I was frightened you might back down. A lot of women would, you know.'

‘Then he's a kind of gangster,' Elizabeth said. ‘A racketeer who's going to squeal, or whatever they say in the movies …'

‘That's right,' King said. ‘He's getting very well paid. Now have I done what you wanted? Will you promise me never to say or do a thing that would let Huntley know you're in on this?'

‘I'd better, hadn't I?' To his surprise she laughed, and for a brief moment she looked like Huntley Cameron himself. The gene was there. King thought; in spite of the artistic well-bred mother and her careful rearing, the girl and the old man were of the same blood.

‘I can just imagine what Huntley would dream up for you if he knew you'd landed me with a mess like this. I don't know what he wouldn't do, but don't worry. I won't tell him anything. You can rely on me.'

He reached out and took her hand. For a moment she felt his lips close over the skin on the back of it, and she pulled away from him.

‘It's making me sick in here,' she said. ‘I must go back.'

He showed no sign of rebuff; he stood aside and let her pass him, courteous and friendly, and followed her slowly back to join her uncle.

From the moment he began telling it in the orchid house, Elizabeth knew King's story about Keller was a lie. She had known that with the first words. The Mafia, dope, prostitution, corruption in government circles; the glib stream poured out of him, cliché after cliché, lie after lie. Huntley had attacked the Mafia before; she knew all about what he had done and when, and she could only suppose that this was why King had picked upon that particular tale.

People were ready to believe something they had heard before. But he had ignored one vital point; or not ignored, but literally been in ignorance of it. He had talked about the man as if her lie had been the truth. As if he had stayed a silent presence in another room. Believing that, King had painted his incongruous picture of a defecting racketeer; he hadn't even seen her sarcasm when she likened the whole thing to something in the movies. Keller bore no possible resemblance to the type that King described. She had slept at his side, touched the battle scars on his body, felt the calloused hard hands on her own skin. Keller was no Mafioso; that kind lived well, dressed expensively, were manicured and barbered every day. They didn't pick up starving refugees and give them shelter.