Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

the jacket over his arm. The pager was on his belt and the shoes were a give-away to anyone who knew: smart but soft-soled. He dumped his briefcase under the table, hung his jacket on the chair, shook hands, and sat down.

      ‘Good trip?’

      ‘Eventually,’ Haslam told him.

      ‘When did you get back?’

      ‘Last night.’

      They ordered salad, blue cheese dressing, swordfish steaks and iced tea, and updated each other. At every table in the restaurant the process was being repeated: not the same words or details, but the same thrust. Nothing confidential: even though the voices were low, it was not the place for security. Occasionally someone would glance at another table and nod at a colleague or an acquaintance.

      The two men were seated near the front wall. When Haslam had arrived he had nodded to the one he knew; when Jordan had sat down he had acknowledged them both.

      ‘Who’s with Mitch?’ Haslam asked.

      Mitchell was mid-forties, fit-looking, hair thinning and cut short, his body size deceptive and making him appear shorter than his five-nine. The man seated opposite him was a similar age, slim, dark hair neatly combed, an energy about him, and even in the heat of early summer he wore a three-piece suit.

      ‘Ed Pearson.’ Jordan did not need to look across.

      ‘Who’s Ed Pearson?’

      ‘Donaghue’s AA.’

      AA, Administrative Assistant; what some called a Chief Executive Officer.

      ‘Jack Donaghue?’ Haslam asked.

      Donaghue nearing the end of his second term as Senator after two successful terms in the House of Representatives.

      Jordan nodded. ‘A lot of people in this room would like to be where Ed Pearson is at the moment.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Like I said, Ed’s Jack Donaghue’s AA. November next year the country votes for its next man in the White House. Barring accidents, the president will run again for the Republicans. If he enters, Donaghue will get the Democrat nomination. If he does, he’s the next president.’

      ‘How can you be so sure?’ Haslam glanced at Pearson.

      ‘You’ve seen Donaghue, heard him, read about him?’ Jordan asked.

      ‘I know about Camelot if that’s what you mean.’ The words used to describe the thousand days of John Kennedy’s presidency before he was gunned down in Dallas. The mantle many had passed to Robert Kennedy until he had been assassinated in Los Angeles five years later.

      Jordan nodded again. ‘Whichever way, a lot of people think Donaghue’s the new Kennedy.’

      Funny how even now the name had an aura, Haslam thought. How even now people linked it not just to the past but to the future.

      It was as if Jordan understood what he was thinking. ‘Donaghue’s father grew up with John Kennedy, the families are still part of the Boston mafia. Donaghue’s as close as you can get to a Kennedy without actually being one.’

      ‘But he hasn’t declared.’ Because I’ve been away, therefore I’m out of touch.

      ‘No, he hasn’t declared yet.’

      ‘You’d vote for him?’

      ‘Yes,’ Jordan said firmly.

      It was fifteen minutes to two, time for the restaurant to start emptying.

      ‘If Donaghue made the White House where would that leave Pearson?’ Haslam shook his head at the dessert list and asked the waitress for coffee.

      ‘As I said, Pearson is Donaghue’s right-hand man. If Donaghue was elected Pearson would be his chief of staff, the alternative president.’

      ‘So what’s Mitch doing with him?’

      Jordan laughed. ‘Not just having lunch.’

      ‘Who’s that?’ Pearson asked.

      Mitchell did not need to look. ‘The one farthest from the door is Quincey Jordan.’

      A long journey for the skinny runt who wasn’t tall enough to play basketball and who’d got his ass kicked – as Jordan himself would have put it – because he’d therefore had to spend his evenings hunched over his school-books. Because in America in die sixties and seventies, in America today, sports scholarships were the normal way up if you were poor and black.

      ‘I know Quince,’ Pearson told him. I know that he used to work the Old Man, as they say in the trade; I know that before he left the Secret Service, Jordan was on the presidential detachment; that now he runs one of the select companies providing specialist services to both government and private organizations, as well as to people like me. ‘Who’s the other?’

      ‘A Brit. Dave Haslam.’

      ‘Tell me about him.’ Who he is and what Jordan’s doing with him.

      ‘Haslam’s a kidnap consultant. Ex British Special Air Service. Worked with our Special Forces people in the Gulf.’

      ‘What did he do there?’

      ‘He doesn’t talk about it much.’

      ‘But?’

      ‘I gather he’s got a letter from the president stuck up in his bathroom.’

      ‘Why?’ Pearson asked.

      ‘Why what?’

      ‘Why’s he got a letter from the president?’

      A waitress cleared their plates and brought them coffee.

      ‘One of the great fears during the Gulf War was that Israel would become involved. They didn’t because for some reason which no one’s ever explained, Saddam didn’t launch his full range of Scud missiles against them. Saddam didn’t do that because someone took them out. That’s why Haslam’s got a letter from the president stuck on his bathroom door.’

      It was ten minutes to two, the restaurant suddenly emptying. On the other table Haslam paid the bill, then he and Jordan rose to leave.

      ‘Ed, Mitch.’ Jordan crossed and shook their hands. ‘Good to see you both.’

      Haslam greeted Mitchell and waited till Jordan introduced him to Pearson.

      ‘Join us for coffee,’ Pearson suggested.

      ‘Thanks, but we’ve had our fill,’ Jordan told him.

      ‘You’re from England.’ Pearson looked up at Haslam.

      ‘How’d you guess?’ It was said jokingly.

      ‘Working or visiting?’

      ‘Working.’

      But you know that already, because you’ve already asked Mitch about me.

      ‘Next time you’re on the Hill, drop in.’

      It was Washington-style, part of what the politicians called networking.

      ‘Which room?’ The reply was casual, no big deal.

      ‘Russell Building 396,’ Pearson told him. ‘Make it this afternoon if you’re passing by.’

      He watched as Haslam and Jordan left, then turned back to Mitchell. ‘You have much on at the moment?’

      The first frost touched Mitchell’s spine. ‘Nothing I couldn’t wrap up quickly.’

      ‘Jack and I would like you on the team.’

      ‘Anything specific?’

      ‘Jack might want to announce a special investigation, but before he does he wants a prelim done to make sure it will stand up.’

      ‘What