Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

Something like Savings and Loans, perhaps.’ The financial scandal in the eighties in which many people had lost their money. ‘Banking and the laundering of drug money are also front runners.’ But it could be anything Mitchell chose – it was in Pearson’s eyes, Pearson’s shrug. As long as Mitchell could deliver.

      Why? someone else might have asked. ‘When exactly would Jack like to announce the results?’ Mitchell asked instead.

      Pearson finished his coffee and reached for his napkin. ‘Possibly next March or April,’ Pearson told him.

      The party would choose its candidate at its convention in the August, but the votes at that convention would be governed by each candidate’s share of the vote in the primaries three months before. The right publicity at that time, therefore, and a candidate might leave his rivals standing.

      ‘If not in the primaries, then when?’ Mitchell asked.

      Because if a candidate’s bandwagon was already rolling, his team might hold back certain things till later.

      ‘October of next year,’ Pearson said simply.

      A month before the people of America voted for their next president.

      ‘When do you want me to start?’

      ‘As soon as you can.’

      ‘And when does Jack want to announce he’s setting up an investigation?’

      Because then he’d be in the news. Because then he could use it to help launch his campaign. But only if he was guaranteed of delivering.

      ‘A precise date?’ Pearson asked.

      ‘Yeah, Ed. A precise date.’

      There was an unwritten law among politicians running for their party’s nomination: that in order to win the primaries, there was a date by which a candidate must declare. That day was Labour Day, the first Monday of the first week in the preceding September. This September. Three months off.

      Pearson folded the napkin slowly and deliberately, placed it on the table and looked at Mitchell, the first smile appearing on his face and the first laugh in his eyes.

      ‘Labour Day sounds good.’

      The heat of the afternoon was relaxing, which was dangerous, because he might think he had unwound. And if he thought that then he might accept another job before he was ready.

      Haslam sat on the steps of Capitol Hill and looked down the Mall.

      Thirty-six hours ago he’d been dealing with Ortega, and thirty hours before that he’d been praying to whatever God he believed in for the safe delivery of the little girl called Rosita.

      He left the steps and walked to Russell Building.

      The buildings housing the offices of members of the US Senate were to the north of Capitol Hill and those housing members of the House of Representatives to the south, the gleaming façades of the US Supreme Court and the Library of Congress between. Two of the Senate offices, Dirksen and Hart, were new and one, Russell, was the original. Five hundred yards to the north stood Union Station.

      Haslam entered Russell Building by the entrance on First and Constitution Avenue, passed through the security check, ignored the lifts and walked up the sweep of stairs to the third floor. The corridors were long with high ceilings and the floors were marble, so that his footsteps echoed away from him. He checked the plan of the floor at the top of the stairs and turned right, even numbers on his left, beginning with 398, and odd on his right, a notice on the door of 396 saying that all enquiries should be through 398.

      The reception room was pleasantly though functionally furnished, the window at the rear facing on to the courtyard round which Russell was built. There were two secretaries, one female and in her mid-twenties and the other male and younger, probably fresh out of college and working as a volunteer, Haslam thought. He introduced himself, then looked round at the photographs on the walls while the woman telephoned the AA.

      Some of the prints were of Donaghue, which he expected, others were of the Senator’s home state, which he also expected, and one was of President John F. Kennedy.

      Pearson came from the door behind the secretary’s desk and held out his hand. He had taken off his jacket, but still wore a waistcoat.

      ‘Glad you could make it. Coffee?’

      ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Haslam shook his hand and followed him through. The next room was neat, though not as large as Haslam had expected, with two desks, each with telephones and computers, leather swing chairs facing the desks, and more photographs on the walls. The bookcases were lined with political, constitutional and legal texts.

      ‘So this is where it happens.’ Haslam glanced round.

      ‘Sometimes.’ The secretary brought them each a mug. ‘Let me show you round.’ Pearson led him back through the reception offices to the one on the far side, then to those on the opposite side of the corridor, identifying rooms and occasionally introducing people. It was the PR tour, albeit executive class. The sort visiting dignitaries from the Senator’s home state might get.

      They came to the conference room.

      ‘Rooms are allocated according to seniority and positions held. Senator Donaghue is on three committees and chairs a subcommittee of Banking, hence he gets this.’

      If Donaghue’s nearing the end of his second term and he’s on so many committees, then why doesn’t he get a modern suite in one of the two new buildings, Haslam thought.

      They were back in Pearson’s room. The AA opened the door to the left of his desk and showed him through.

      The third door from the corner, Haslam calculated, therefore Room 394.

      The room was rectangular, the shortest side to their left as they entered, and the windows in it looked on to the central courtyard. The walls were painted a soothing pastel and hung with paintings and photographs. The Senator’s desk was in front of the window, with flags either side. In the centre of the wall opposite the door through which they had just entered, was a large dark green marble fireplace. At the end of the room furthest from the window was a small round conference table, leather chairs round it; in the corner next to it stood a walnut cabinet containing a television set and minibar, a coffee percolator on top.

      The desk by the window was antique, the patina of the years giving it a soft appearance. The top was clear except for a telephone and a silver-framed family photograph – Donaghue, a woman presumably his wife, and two girls. On the front of the desk was a length of polished oak, the face angled, on which were carved three lines:

       Some men see things as they are and say why;

       I dream things that never were and say why not.

      ROBERT KENNEDY, 1968

      The inner sanctum, Haslam thought. ‘May I?’ he asked.

      ‘Of course,’ Pearson told him.

      Haslam walked round the room, looking at the paintings then at the photographs, and stopped at the two above the fireplace.

      The first, in black and white and of World War Two vintage, was of two young men in the uniforms of naval lieutenants; in the background was a PT boat.

      ‘I recognize Kennedy. Who’s the other man?’

      ‘A friend of the Senator’s father,’ Pearson explained. ‘He was to be the Senator’s godfather, but was killed in action before Donaghue was born.’

      The second photograph, this time in colour, was of a young Donaghue, also dressed in naval uniform, and the citation beside it was for bravery, the date fixing it in the Vietnam War.

      To the right of the fireplace were another set, plain and simple: Donaghue as a small boy, Donaghue at school, Donaghue at Harvard, Donaghue with the woman in the family photograph on his desk.

      The print next to them was black and white and had been blown up, so that