'You let us worry about that,' I said.
'You don't get these big government contracts by sitting on your butt, waiting for the phone to ring. Douglas went out of his way to look after his contacts, and they expected that.'
'Who was it?'
'People from some Senate Committee.'
'Which Senate Committee?'
'International Scientific Co-operation — or some such name. You must have heard of it.'
'We've heard of it,' I said. 'So who came here?'
'Only for fishing trips, and you wouldn't get me on that boat when they are fishing. I didn't get to meet any of them. They were just fishing cronies of Douglas. Like I told you, it was just social. Douglas only put it down as business so he could get the tax deductions.'
'Names!' said Mann. 'Names, goddamnit!'
She spilled her drink. 'Mr Hart. Mr Gerry Hart. He's helped my husband get other government contracts.'
'Mind if I use your phone, Mrs Reid-Kennedy?' said Mann.
Chapter Seventeen
They are made of marble, steel, chromium and tinted glass, these gleaming governmental buildings that dominate Washington, D.C., and from the top of any one of them, a man can see half-way across the world — if he's a politician.
The buildings have no names; only numbers and initials. FOBS are Federal office buildings and HOBS are House office buildings. This rent-free luxury office suite, in which Senator Greenwood could sip Martinis and trim his toenails while watching the home-going traffic building up on the Potomac River Freeway, and still keep the other eye on the White House, was a Senate office building — a SOB.
The heavy silk curtains had been fully opened to reveal the cityscape through the picture windows. I could see the river Potomac and, farther away, the Washington Channel. Mirroring the sky, their waters were colourless, like two icy daggers sunk into the city's gut. Greenwood stood with us admiring the view for a moment.
'About this time I usually have a bourbon and ginger,' he smiled, and flicked a strand of hair from his eyes. A senator with enough hair to flick off his face has something to smile about, even without the palatial office, imported furniture and the rosewood cupboard full of hard stuff. 'So what will it be for you boys?'
'A tonic water,' I said.
'A bourbon and ginger would suit me nicely, sir,' said Mann.
Thought you were going to say you didn't drink while you were on duty,' said Greenwood. He tossed some ice into glasses that were cold enough to whiten, and snapped the crown corks from three bottles in a row: they gave three little gasps.
'I'd never get a drink if I pursued that kind of policy,' said Mann.
'Right. Right!' said Greenwood in an absent-minded way, as if he'd already forgotten the beginning of the conversation. He set the drinks down on the antique side tables that were carefully arranged for each of the Barcelona chairs that faced his desk. It was a modern design: no more than two stainless-steel trestles supporting a sheet of armour glass. He walked round the desk, and sat in his Italian swivel chair. There was no front to the desk, and the papers arranged on the glass-top seemed to be floating in the air. Perhaps it was Greenwood's way of proving he didn't have a Derringer hi his lap.
'Mr Gerry Hart,' said Greenwood, as though announcing that the courtesies were over.
'Yes,' said Mann.
'I've got the report,' said Greenwood.
'It's not a report, Senator,' said Mann. 'It's just a private memo to you.'
'Well, I'm not very conversant with the jargon of the C.I.A.,' said Greenwood, hi such a way as to discourage instruction. He smiled. Greenwood's smile used very even, very white, teeth. Like his attentive eyes, his sincere nods and pensive silences, Greenwood's smiles were those of a man who was thinking about something more important. He was a handsome man, urbane rather than backwoods, but some women like that better. He'd have to lose twenty pounds before he'd win admiring glances at the poolside, but in his carefully tailored light-grey mohair and handmade brogues, with his manicured hands, and face talced like a freshly-baked cottage-loaf, I saw in him a possible ladies' man. Coming over here in the car we'd played 'One-word Who's Who': Mann's entry for Greenwood was 'bullshit', mine was 'showbiz', but no doubt Greenwood's entry for himself would be 'boyish'.
Greenwood gave another of those dazzling smiles and said, 'The truth is, fellers, we politicos are too busy shaking hands to spare much time for reading.'
'Is that so,' said Mann.
'Well, maybe I'd better say hi my own defence that I read about one hundred thousand words a day; and that's longer than the average novel.' That's what I like about politicians, even their self-criticism doesn't apply to them personally.
Mann said, 'Your influence and importance in the Senate has always made you a target for ambitious and unscrupulous people, Senator…' I saw Greenwood begin to scowl. Mann continued a little more hastily,'… And when you joined the Scientific Development sub-committee of the Senate Committee of International Co-operation…' Greenwood smiled to show that he appreciated the way Mann had got the name right'… you became one of the most powerful men in the whole United States, Senator.'
Greenwood gave a brief nod. 'Before you go on, Major. Maybe I should remind you that the C.I.A. have got a Senate office that handles all contact with you people.'
'We want to keep limited access,' said Mann.
'Limited access,' said Greenwood. 'I'm hearing a lot about limited access from your people.'
'Any normal application, through the C.I.A. Senate office, would be too likely to alert Mr Gerry Hart.'
'And you don't want to alert him?'
'No, sir. We do not.'
'Are we talking about off-the-record material, or press leaks, or are we talking about scientific data that my committee decided to publish but which you guys at the C.I.A. don't like to see published?'
'We are talking about important secret material channelled to the U.S.S.R. by means of an espionage network.'
'Gerry Hart working for the Russians?' Greenwood said. He drank some of his bourbon. 'This is a guy who used to work with you people — did you know that?'
'So he'd know how to pass it across. Right, Senator, you got it,' said Mann pretending to be grateful that Greenwood was of the same mind. 'And now we want to look at this house Gerry Hart owns, down near Brandywine.'
'And his apartment in Georgetown,' said Greenwood dispassionately.
Mann nodded. 'And…' he said. He waved a flattened hand in a moment's hesitation. Even through the double-glazing we heard the police sirens. It was a Lincoln limousine flying flags and escorted by three motor-cycle cops. We watched them as they went over the bridge, probably heading for the airport.
'And his office,' said Greenwood.
'And his office,' said Mann. 'Yes, that's it.'
'And yet, Major, you tell me you've no real hard evidence,' said Greenwood. He sat back in his swivel chair and kicked gently, so that he could spin far enough to see the Potomac. The water seemed very still, and there was the gentle rumble of a jet plane.
'Depends what you call hard evidence,' said Major Mann sadly. 'We got his name when following another line of the investigation.'
I felt Mann's indecision, as he wondered whether to emphasize our suspicions about Gerry Hart, or to minimize them and suggest that we wanted no more than a routine check that would eliminate Gerry Hart from our list of suspects. He decided not to elaborate on it, and sipped some of his drink, watching Greenwood expectantly.
Greenwood lifted one of his hand-made shoes high enough for him to retie the lace. 'What I mean by hard
