Washington DC, 1990
The black Jaguar stopped in front of 630 Pennsylvania Avenue.
The driver and the passenger in front got out, both men wearing suits and ties and both well over six feet tall. One of them opened the back door of the Jaguar. A white-haired man of about eighty got out. While the men in suits looked carefully up and down the street, the old man took the side door into a cafeteria that was being renovated. One of the men got into the Jaguar and took off; the other followed the old man who was going down a wooden staircase. The old man came to a mahogany door. he knocked three times and a slit opened in the middle of the door to see who was knocking. The slit closed again and two seconds later the door opened. The old man and his bodyguard went through the door. They walked along a corridor for a few yards and began to go past rooms where naked women were packing cocaine in small phials. The old man reached the end of the corridor, where there was an open door.
‘Whatś this shit you’re doing here? Packing cocaine right in the middle of the capital city? You really want to get locked up,’
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grumbled the old man to a blond man who was sitting behind a large glass table, counting hundred-dollar notes.
‘There’s got to be some point in the pay-offs we make to the judges and the cops and anyway, we’ve got you to get us out of any trouble that comes along,’ retorted the blond man, who had a tattoo on his neck.
‘Where are the women of this whorehouse of yours, you give them a holiday?’
‘of course not, we just moved to another place. You didn’t get the message? our fault.’
‘let’s get right down to business. What’ve you got for me that’s so important?’ asked the old man.
‘Mr. Jack, sit down will you? Would you like a glass of water or a cup of coffee, or something to snort?’ asked the man sarcastically.
‘Don’t joke with me, you worm, or tomorrow you’ll wake up with your mouth full of ants,’ shouted the old man.
‘Easy, Jack, I’m just kidding, no need to get all het up!’ replied the man, trying not to show he was afraid.
‘Out with it.’ The old man sat down on the sofa and took a cigar out of his jacket.
‘That Frenchman you told us to follow.’
‘I know. What about him? Did you find out anything?’
‘Yes. My people checked his phone bill and found he spent more than an hour on an international call, guess where to?’
‘Washington?’
‘Exactly!”
‘And you didn´t record the call?’
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‘No, that was before we managed to bug his phone. Now it’s bugged he hasn’t made any suspicious calls.’
‘Incompetent fools! And whose phone did he call in Washington?’
‘The senator for New York.’
‘George Griffin? Are you sure?’ replied Jack, surprised.
‘Absolutely. it was his home number.’
‘But what possible connection could those two have?’ the old man thought aloud as he puffed out smoke from his cigar.
‘We don’t know yet, but you hired us to find out and we will soon know.’
‘i want to know everything about the senator. What time he gets up, what he eats, who he sleeps with apart from his wife. Bug his home phone and try to bug his office phone too.’
‘The office? That’s impossible. We’d be caught.’
‘That’s your problem. use your secret service contacts, work it out. on second thoughts forget it, no need to bug the office. If they talked on his home phone they’re friends or something of the sort.
if it was to do with work the senator would’ve used the phone in his office.’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘send me a transcript of the important recordings. Always put the tapes in that post box i gave you. i’m off. i’ll be waiting for news.’
The old man left the room while his bodyguard, a sub-machine gun in his hand, looked the blond man up and down. The guard got a small radio out and told his colleague they were just leaving. The three got into the Jaguar and sped away. The old man, whose name wasn’t Jack, began to wonder what connection the Frenchman could have with the most popular senator in the uS, his personal 97
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friend, thoughtfully running his hands through his white hair and lighting another Cuban cigar.
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