The sounds came from the darkness, the glow of the lamp, then the silence of the warders bringing him his food. Paolo Benini waited till they had gone then began to eat, not minding if the liquid of the soup splashed down the front of his shirt or if the remnants of the bread fell on to the floor. When he had finished eating he sniffed at the buckets, tried to remember which he had urinated in, then drank from what he hoped was the other.
Some time it would come to an end, of course. The bank carried kidnap insurance, and the bank would have paid anyway.
Every client wanted an efficient service, every client wished to avoid the red tape which might hinder their activities, and everyone bent over backwards to satisfy them. That was what banking was all about. Arab money, Jewish money, it made no difference. Money from the Middle or Far East, from Russia or America, it didn’t matter. Except sometimes someone wanted a little more, which brought the bank an extra commission. But to get that commission the bank needed someone like Paolo Benini to set everything up, someone like Paolo Benini to make sure it was all in order and to sort out any problems which might arise. And the more clients who were happy the more custom came to the bank and the happier the bank was. Especially with the extras they were able to charge and the clients were prepared to pay.
You’re clutching at clouds in the sky, the voice tried to tell him. You’re thinking of things you did in the past, rather than what you have to do to survive the present.
Part of the groundwork had already been done before, of course, but it had been he, Paolo Benini, who had structured and developed it. Especially in the United States. He who had suggested they look for one of the small regional banks in danger of collapse in the eighties, buy it up but conceal the ownership, then make it profitable and use it as a front for BCI’s black operations. He who had faced up to the conventional thinkers on the board and rejected the various banks which they had suggested, especially those with connections in Florida because those were the sort of places investigators from organizations like the US Federal Bank and the Justice Department and the Drug Enforcement Administration automatically looked to, because those were the sort of places already being used to launder money. He who had suggested they go west, look for a nice little bank in a nice little town where no one would suspect. A bank which no one knew was in trouble and with a president who could be persuaded to bend the rules to maintain the financial standing of the bank in general and himself in particular. He, Paolo Benini, who had personally chosen First Commercial of Santa Fe, and he, Paolo Benini, who had made the arrangements.
Forget all that, the voice told him, forget what’s gone before. Just work out where you are and who you are. What you should be thinking about are Francesca and the girls, because they are the ones who will save you, who will provide the anchor which will moor your mind to some kind of sanity.
And just after he had arranged the takeover of First Commercial of Santa Fe, he and Myerscough had met – it was as if his brain was flicking between television channels.
Why was he thinking of Myerscough, the voice asked him.
Because Myerscough ran Nebulus, because Nebulus was the last account he had checked in London, and because he had therefore thought that Nebulus might be the subject of the fax he had received at the hotel. Except, of course, that the fax hadn’t been genuine.
If any of his clients found out, however … If ever it became public knowledge, even within the limited public of that corner of the banking world, even within BCI itself, that he had been kidnapped … Therefore the bank would do everything in its power not just to secure his release, but to achieve it quickly.
You’re still deluding yourself – the voice was fainter now, almost gone. Look at yourself, at the mess you’re in. Food spilled on the floor and down your clothes and urine on your trousers. You don’t even know which bucket you’re urinating and defecating in and which you’re drinking from. No wonder the rat came feeding.
The feet shuffled from the black, the lamp appeared, the guards removed the remnants of his food, and he was alone again.
Cath was curled beside him.
It was a long time since they’d met at Harvard, since they’d got to know each other in their final year. Then they’d gone their separate ways, she to law school and he, when his number had been drawn, to Vietnam. And that would have been the end of it. Except that once, during R and R, he’d written her; when he finally came home he’d found her number and called, and she’d visited him in hospital. Halfway through his own spell at law school they’d married; the night he’d got his first job she’d cooked him a candlelit dinner. Two years later she’d stood at his side when he’d run for his first public office.
Donaghue swung out of the bed, switched off the alarm before it woke her, and went to the bathroom. When he returned the bed was empty and the smell of breakfast was drifting up from the kitchen.
It was five-thirty. He started the Lincoln, waved back as she watched him from the front door, and drove to National airport. Twenty minutes later he was on the shuttle to La Guardia.
Pearson woke at six-thirty, showered, shaved and dressed. Evie was still asleep, her legs sticking out from under the duvet and her hair across the pillow.
The house was on 6th SE, half a block from Independence Avenue and ten minutes’ walk from the Hill. They’d bought it for a knock-down price, then sweated God knows how many weekends and holidays to get it as they wanted, had somehow squeezed the renovation between her professorship at Georgetown and his job on the Hill.
When he went upstairs she was still half asleep.
‘See you tonight.’
She rolled over so he could kiss her.
‘Be good.’
The morning was already warm; he left the house, crossed Independence, and turned left on East Capitol Street. In front of him the white dome of the Hill glistened in the early light. By seven thirty-five he had collected a coffee and doughnut from the basement canteen and was at his desk checking his electronic mail. At eight-thirty he briefed the morning meeting.
‘Senator Donaghue’s in New York for a fund-raising breakfast. He’ll be back at ten. Terry to collect him from National. Ten-thirty he meets a business delegation, Jonathan has the details. At eleven he’s in the Senate; Barbara in charge of TV and radio interviews after. Eleven forty-five he’s at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial; family paying their respects.’
For years now the families of the MIAs, the servicemen missing in action in Vietnam, had been campaigning in the hope that some of them might still be alive. Donaghue had championed their rights for greater information on reported sightings whilst cautioning against excessive hope. Six months earlier photographic evidence had been produced supposedly showing MIAs in a village in North Vietnam. One week ago they had been proven to be forgeries. Now the family of one of the men was coming to pay their respects at the polished black granite memorial in Constitution Gardens, and had asked Donaghue to join them, even though they were not from Donaghue’s state.
One of the lawyers raised his hand. ‘What chance of some coverage?’
‘ABC, CBS and NBC feeding to local affiliates,’ the press secretary told them. ‘CNN there as well unless something else breaks, plus radio and newspapers.’
Pearson nodded, then continued.
‘Twelve-thirty, Senate vote, Maureen accompanying him. One o’clock lunch at the National Democratic Club.’
There was a similar list of engagements for the afternoon and early evening, the final one at seven and lasting half an hour. And after that the meeting that wasn’t on any schedule. The one they called the war council.
Mitchell woke at seven, the sun streaming through the windows of the houseboat and