Rafael. His parents brought him over from Sicily when he was ten. He was Mafia by family tradition. Went through the ranks so fast he was Don at thirty and the smartest of them all. Never served a day of his life in prison. Not one.’
‘A lucky man.’
‘No, not lucky, smart. He retired back to the old country a few years ago, but the word is he’s number one man over there. Capo Mafia in all Sicily.’
At that moment, a hand appeared at her partially open window and she turned to see Henry Kissinger reaching across from the car next to hers. She opened the window completely and leaned out. ‘Henry, how are you? It’s been ages.’
He kissed her hand. ‘Get back in, Sarah, you’ll get wet. Where are you going?’
‘The Four Seasons.’
‘So am I. I’ll catch up with you later.’
His car moved away and she sat back and closed the window. ‘Jesus, Mrs Talbot, is there anyone you don’t know?’ Charles asked.
‘Don’t exaggerate, Charles.’ She laughed. ‘Just concentrate on getting us there.’
She sat back and looked at the photo of Don Rafael Barbera and suddenly realized, with a certain surprise, that she rather liked the look of him.
The Four Seasons was very definitely her favourite restaurant and not only because of the superb food, but the decor. The whole place had such style, from the shimmering gold curtains and dark wood to the quiet elegance of the waiters and captains.
She was seated instantly, as a favoured customer, at her usual table in the Pool Room, from where she could survey the room. The place was crowded and she could see Tom Gayitfai and Paul Kori, the owners, hovering in the background, looking even more anxious than usual, which was hardly surprising in view of the guests. Henry Kissinger was sitting at a table to her right and the Vice-President himself was at a table at the far end of the pool, which explained the large young men in dark suits she’d noticed in the vestibule on the way in, their air of efficient, quiet violence filling her with distaste.
Her waiter appeared. ‘The usual, Mrs Talbot?’
‘Yes, Martin.’
He snapped his fingers and the Dom Perignon 1980 was at her table in an instant.
‘Looks like a fun evening,’ she commented.
‘Actually the Vice-President is getting ready to leave, but they’ve all been waiting to see whether he or Kissinger would be the first to go and say hello to the other,’ he told her. ‘Can I take your order now?’
He offered the menu, but she shook her head. ‘I know what I want, Martin. Crisped shrimp with mustard fruit, then the roast duckling with cherries, and since it’s a big evening, I’ll finish with …’
‘The bitter chocolate sherbet.’ They both laughed and he started to turn away, then paused. ‘Hey, he’s on the move.’
‘It seems Kissinger wins on points,’ Sarah said.
‘Like hell it does.’ Martin was in a panic. ‘He’s coming right this way, Mrs Talbot.’
He moved to one side fast and the Vice-President arrived plus his inimitable smile. ‘Sarah, you’re looking as remarkable as usual. No, don’t get up. I can’t stop. Due at the UN.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Talking about you at the White House last night.’
‘Good things, I hope?’ she said.
‘Always good where you’re concerned, Sarah,’ and he was gone.
People were staring at her curiously and Henry Kissinger gave her a little nod, a slight smile on his face. Martin refilled her glass and he was smiling too. She savoured the Dom Perignon, thinking about it. They’d be talking about this at the bar of ‘21’ within an hour; the gossip columns would have it in the early editions.
‘Woman of the Year next, Sarah,’ she said softly and raised her glass. ‘To the woman who has everything.’ She paused. ‘Or nothing.’ She frowned. ‘Now why in the hell did I say that?’
And then Martin was there, leaning over the table. ‘Your chauffeur’s in the vestibule, Mrs Talbot. He says it’s urgent.’
‘Really?’ She got up at once, no unease in her at all, bewildered, if anything.
Charles’s face should have told her, the hunted look, the way he glanced to one side as he talked. ‘I’ve got Mr Morgan in the car, Mrs Talbot.’
‘Dan?’ she said. ‘Here?’ Dan Morgan was president of the brokerage firm of which she was now a senior partner.
‘Like I said, he’s in the car.’ Charles was obviously upset. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Talbot.’
The doorman held up an umbrella for her as she crossed the pavement to the car and Dan Morgan, greying, distinguished in black tie and evening dress, glanced up at her, his face grave.
‘Dan, what is this?’ she demanded.
‘Just get in, Sarah.’ He opened the door and pulled her to him. ‘Get Mrs Talbot’s coat, Charles. I think she’ll be leaving.’
Charles moved away and Sarah said, ‘Dan what’s going on?’
He had a large envelope on the seat beside him, she noticed, as he took her hands. ‘Sarah, Eric is dead.’
‘Dead? Eric?’ She was underwater now, in slow motion. ‘That’s ridiculous. Who says so?’
‘Tony Villiers tried to get hold of you earlier. When he couldn’t, he phoned me.’ Charles returned with her coat and got behind the wheel. ‘Just drive,’ Morgan told him.
‘Where to, Mr Morgan?’
‘Anywhere, for God’s sake,’ Morgan said violently.
The car pulled away. Sarah said, ‘It can’t be true. It can’t be.’
‘It’s all in here, Sarah.’ Morgan picked up the envelope. ‘Villiers wired it all over to the office. I went and picked it up.’
She stared at the envelope and said dully, ‘What’s in there?’
‘Doctor’s reports, police coroner, that sort of thing. It’s not good, Sarah. In fact it’s about as bad as it could be. Better you leave them till later when you’re calmer.’
‘No,’ she said, her voice dangerously low. ‘Now. I want them now.’
She took the envelope from him, had opened it and turned on the interior light before he could stop her. Her face was wild, the eyes staring. When she had finished, she sat there, unnaturally calm.
‘Stop the car, Charles,’ she ordered.
‘Mrs Talbot?’
‘Stop the car, damn you!’
He swung the car into the kerb, she had the door open before they could stop her and was running through the rain to the nearest alley. When they reached her, she was leaning against the wall beside overflowing trash cans being violently sick. Finally, she stopped and turned to face them.
Morgan held out his handkerchief. ‘We’ll take you home now, Sarah.’
‘Yes,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll need my passport.’
‘Passport?’ he said incredulously. ‘The only things you need are the right pills and bed.’
‘No, Dan,’ she said. ‘I need a plane. British Airways, Pan Am, TWA, it doesn’t matter which, as long as it’s going to London and it’s going tonight.’
‘Sarah!’ he tried again.
‘No, Dan, no arguments. Just get me home. I’ve got things to do,’ and she walked away from him through the rain and got into the back of the car.