Free The American Ambassador by Ward Just Page B

It’s likely there’s a leak somewhere, there usually is, though with all those young people working eighteen-hour days they can look through wastebaskets. They don’t give a damn about home life or a Dubonnet at the end of the day.” Carruthers paused again and North felt that the drumroll was coming to an end at last. “They’re meeting in closed session and they’re taking depositions and the gumshoe has got some of his friends waving the Freedom of Information Act. That’s according to
our
sources,
our
leak. This leak,
our
leak, is an older fella, he goes way back to Senator Joe, doesn’t care much for zealots. And I think there are three or four personality conflicts. It’s probably sexual jealousy, these young women on the staff are particularly aggressive. So”—Carruthers took a deep breath, evidently preparing to strike a clear note—“our man thinks Winston’s got something. Winston thinks he’s got an example of a redhot security leak. And of course that’s only the tip of the iceberg that he thinks he has. What he’s really got on his mind is terrorists, and he’s trying to link the two. Do you see what I’m saying? Our man thinks Winston sniffs a cover-up.” He smiled sardonically, a man ill at ease with cliché. “A cover-up,” he repeated. “So there’s some interest in you, Bill.” He smiled again, having jumped three hurdles at once.
    â€œThat won’t get them very far,” he said.
    â€œBill,” Carruthers said, disappointed, “Bill Bill Bill.” He had a round face, without definition, like the face painted on a balloon. It was not a soft face, nor an especially cheerful one, and if at forty everyone has the face he’s earned—well then, Paul Carruthers had led a life of perfect self-absorption. Like Buddha’s, his was not a face to register emotion of any kind. He had extinguished the pain and care of the external world by the simple method of ignoring it. He was a fierce competitor and often underrated because of his bland looks and droll preludes. Those who knew him well listened carefully to his voice, a tenor. His emotions were communicated not by any expression in his face but by the tone of his voice. His face was as neutral as the dial of a radio.
    â€œThey’re interested in your son, and the approach that was made to you in Africa. I’m talking of course about the last tour, the ’eighty-two-’eighty-three tour, the winter of those years, the year the ’Skins went to the Super Bowl, just knocked hell out of Miami. You'remember the strike, the short season, the anxiety, we were so disappointed. Sundays were out of synch, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. That’s the year they’re concerned with, Winston and Dunphy and the gumshoe.” Another short pause while Carruthers consulted a paper. “Bill, where’s your son?”
    â€œI don’t know,” North said. “And Elinor doesn’t know, either.”
    â€œWhere was he, last time you heard?”
    North paused fractionally. “Hamburg.”
    Carruthers sighed. “You want to add ‘to my knowledge’?”
    â€œNo,” North said.
    Carruthers lowered his voice, not quite an apology, more an explanation. “These are questions I have to ask, Bill. It’s my brief. They’re being asked at the other end of the avenue, and I have to ask them here. It’s not personal.”
    Hartnett intervened. “And he’s answering them freely, of his own free will, without consultation. The record can show that.”
    â€œThere is no record, counselor,” Carruthers said, disappointed again. “I’m not even making notes. This is informal, as I’ve said. This is a conversation among the three of us, simply trying to get to the bottom of this matter. Us three.”
    â€œWho are on the same side,” Hartnett