Free Lovers and Liars Trilogy by Sally Beauman Page A

for one. That goes without saying, and old S. S. should never be underestimated, wheelchair or no. I’ve heard other names mentioned as well, powerful names representing powerful vested interests. Still—”
    He broke off, and leaned back in his chair, drawing on his cigar. “We don’t need to concentrate on those details, not for now. I didn’t bring you both here today to discuss them. John Hawthorne may or may not have an illustrious political future. Right now, he’s one of his country’s most senior ambassadors, a man with an unblemished reputation. And—unlike you—I have been hearing stories about him. Very interesting stories. Revelatory, you might say. Your job will be to discover if they’re true. If they are, then Hawthorne will have no political future at all.”
    He paused, looking from Pascal to Gini. The end of his cigar glowed. Gini hesitated, puzzled by Pascal’s silence. She glanced across at him, then turned back to Jenkins.
    “You mean Hawthorne has an enemy?”
    “Oh, very much so.”
    “That doesn’t necessarily mean much. Men in Hawthorne’s position breed enemies.”
    “I do so agree,” Jenkins said smoothly. “An enemy means nothing—unless that enemy could come up with something John Hawthorne hoped to keep well buried. Something never rumored, never whispered about before. Now, if an enemy could do that—”
    “They’d go straight to an American newspaper.” It was Pascal who cut in, making Gini jump. He was watching Jenkins closely.
    “They’d go straight to The New York Times, Nicholas, or The Washington Post. Their approach might be indirect, devious. But that’s where they’d go. Not a British newspaper. You know that.”
    “True. Very true.” Jenkins remained unruffled. “I agree. That’s precisely what they’d do. Unless they happened to be in England at the time. Unless it just so happened that they had an English contact, someone whom they had reason to trust.”
    There was another silence. Jenkins continued to sit there, smiling at them both. He had every intention, Gini could see, of spinning this out. Silently, she cursed him for this characteristic labyrinthine approach. Jenkins parted with information as reluctantly as a glutton parted with food. The story, she saw, would have to be prised out.
    “Okay,” she said. “Let me get this straight, Nicholas. You’ve heard rumors about Hawthorne. Yes? There’s something he wants to hide. Fiscal? Some tax scam?”
    “No.”
    “Influences, then. Friends in the wrong places? Electoral bribes? Some linkup with organized crime?”
    “Nothing like that. Not a hint. In that respect, Hawthorne’s the original Mr. Clean.”
    “Come on, Nicholas. I’m getting sick of guessing games.”
    “One more try.”
    “All right. Sex. It’s something sexual he wants to hide.”
    “Getting warmer. Go on.”
    “Well, if it’s sexual, it’s predictable….”
    “The best stories often are.”
    “A mistress? An illegitimate child? Call girls? Unwise moments with blondes…”
    “You’re right about the blondes.” Jenkins’s smile broadened. “They have to be blondes, or so I hear….”
    He broke off while they sat in silence, Jenkins enjoying their suspense. Pink, plump, and magisterial, he continued to puff at his cigar like a benign Buddha enthroned on a chair.
    Finally Gini said, “ Have to be blondes? That’s an odd way of putting it.”
    “Oh, no. It’s precise.” Jenkins beamed. “When their services are arranged, he stipulates blondes. He has other requirements as well. Hawthorne’s extremely specific, or so I hear.”
    “Get to the point, Nicholas.”
    “Of course, Pascal. Blondes. Hawthorne needs blondes. But the ways in which he needs them are unusual to say the least. Even to me, and I’ve heard it all. First ”—he held up one finger—“he requires a blonde, a hired blonde, with absolute regularity. One a month, always on the same day. Always on a Sunday, as it happens—the third